


The Viper and the Lion

by ladydirewolf1



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-07-02
Packaged: 2018-05-31 23:17:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 77,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6491437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladydirewolf1/pseuds/ladydirewolf1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>King Joffrey is dead, but Sansa Stark did not escape as planned. In a scheme to return Myrcella Baratheon to King's Landing, Sansa Stark gets caught between a marriage to a viper and a love for a lion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

            Jaime wrenched open the tall oak door guarding the solar of the Hand, his white cloak swinging past his shoulders. “You sent for me, father? I was not aware that the Kingsguard was required at small council meetings,” he said as he stepped inside. Five sets of eyes fell upon him, but it was his twin’s he met now. The deep emerald seemed to glow from within, staring him down with an anger Cersei had mastered into a single look.

            “Come now, Ser Jaime. Surely the Hand has requested your fine service before!”

            Jaime reluctantly wrenched his eyes away from his sister and found, to his surprise, Oberyn Martell staring up at him from his seat by Cersei’s side. “And he’s requested yours?”

            The olive-skinned Dornishman grinned. “From time to time. I happen to have many specialties,” he said in his heavily accented voice. “Perhaps we should share pointers, I hear—”

            There was a cough from the end of the table, and Oberyn fell silent with a smirk. “Sit, Jaime.” Lord Tywin gestured to the empty chair to his left. “I do not have time for such nonsense, not with seven kingdoms to run and a new king to instruct.”

            His gold-plated armor chinking noisily, Jaime passed the other council members and found his chair. Varys and Pycelle sat at the end, each with their eyes fixed on the Hand. One didn’t dare ignore a man like Tywin Lannister when he commanded your attention. It was a lesson instilled in Jaime since birth. Finally, Jaime pulled his chair in, trying not to struggle too obviously with his one hand. The gold one, it turned out, was just as useful as a nipple on a breastplate.

            Silence rang throughout the long table as no one dared to speak before Lord Tywin. Jaime watched the Spider and Pycelle shift uncomfortably in their seats, no doubt itching to get back to scheming or whispering or whatever else such men did with their time. Oberyn, as Jaime knew he would, was lounging back in his seat, casually sipping his dark wine. Only Cersei remained still, her hands clasped so tightly atop the table that her knuckles shone white.

            It was Cersei’s voice, high and strained, that finally broke through the thick air. “I suppose you want _me_ to tell him then, father.”

            They all looked at her, and Jaime’s eyebrows pulled together in confusion. “Tell me what?” Jaime demanded, looking back to his father.

            “It is you we are doing this for, Cersei,” said Lord Tywin sternly.

            Cersei laughed, but no smile reached her eyes. She unclasped her hands, taking a sip from her goblet before speaking. Jaime noted that her hand shook just slightly beneath its long, black sleeve. “I did not ask for you to ship both my son’s murderer and my own brother away from me.”

            “You’re sending me and Tyrion away?”

            Tywin shook his head. “Your sister exaggerates in her widowed state—”

            “ _Widowed state?_

            “—because of which she should remain silent,” spat Tywin, his voice rising as he cut her off. “It is not your brother to be leaving, it is the girl. Sansa Stark.”

            Jaime sat back in his chair, dumfounded. “I don’t understand.”

            “Then perhaps I may explain, my lord?”

            Jaime looked over to where the soft voice had come from. He nodded, and Varys continued on after confirmation from Lord Tywin as well. “It was merely a silly notion of mine, really, my lord,” he started, waving his powdered hands in indifference. “I thought it best for your great family, as well as this great realm, if the princess Myrcella returned home to her mother.”

            “A reasonable idea,” Pycelle chimed in. From the corner of his eye, Jaime saw his twin roll her eyes.

            “Yes, quite,” Varys continued on. “It is a dangerous world for Lannisters at the moment, and the crown cannot risk to lose such an investment, even to the noble house of Dorne.”

            “I do not know about noble, Lord Varys. But I would agree on just, fair, loyal,” said the Viper. “I have already told you that Dorne is the safest place for the child.”

            “Which is why we can risk a less…valuable one, one could say,” answered Varys. “As we have discussed, Sansa Stark is a lovely girl. But she could also be a dangerous one, if she is to remain in the capital with her accused husband. And Lord Tywin has already agreed. Lady Sansa will be exchanged for Princess Myrcella. In return, Prince Oberyn will marry the Stark girl. Ser Jaime, as a faithful member of the Kingsguard, you will, of course, be the one collecting your niece.”

            Jaime remained confused as he absorbed the information. He couldn’t imagine why Lord Tywin would trade the Stark girl for his granddaughter, even if she was in some danger. A marriage with the Martells was a huge step in solidifying the realm under Lannister control. “You only do things if there is gain,” started Jaime, looking at his father. “Why not keep the girl, marry her to another Lannister? What of her claim?”

            “Another Lannister?” said Tywin shortly. “And whom might that be? You refuse to take that damn cloak off, your eligible cousins are all fools, and I have a whole kingdom to run. I have no time for a silly, weeping, woman-child to take as a bride. The Stark girl will be wed to Prince Oberyn,  and their firstborn girl will be betrothed to Tommen’s firstborn son. That child will then lay claim to Casterly Rock, Winterfell, and the Reach. Not to mention titles in Dorne itself. Now ask again why we do not keep the Stark girl.”

            _At least three kingdoms and an iron throne. My father really has outplayed the game._ “And Prince Oberyn just agreed to this plan?” Jaime asked, frowning.  

            The Viper set down his goblet and shrugged. “She is a beautiful girl. And I am too old to die without a proper wife. Besides,” he added, smirking, “we do not have the opportunity to taste these red-headed girls in Dorne.”

            A loud, hacking noise sounded from the end of the table. Jaime looked to see Pycelle coughing up his wine, clearly shocked at the Viper’s words. “Excuse me, excuse me,” the man muttered under his breath, trying in vain to mop up the dark liquid on his robes. “I did not mean to…such filthy people…If you will excuse me, your Grace.” The old man gave a quick nod to Cersei, whose nose wrinkled in disgust, before bowing and scurrying from the chamber.

            There was a pause while they all stared at Pycelle’s wobbling, retreating form. Jaime wanted to laugh, but instead he settled for a tight smirk. When he glanced over at Cersei, her eyes were narrowed, her jaw clenched.

            “If that is all you need of this… _widowed woman_ ,” said Cersei, rising from her chair. Her voice was soft yet laced with a danger Jaime knew too well.

            Tywin nodded curtly. “Are you going to thank Prince Oberyn, your Grace? Because of him, your daughter will be returned to you.” He met Cersei’s eyes with his own, locking her in an icy stare. Cersei’s jaw grew sharper as she turned from their father to the prince.

            “I thank you, Prince Oberyn,” said Cersei, bowing her head. Her golden curls brushed against her waist. “I thank you for bringing my daughter back to me…and taking that traitorous, dim-witted child off our hands. I do hope you enjoy fucking her.” Without another word Cersei turned on her heel, her black gown billowing out from behind as she swept from the room. The door slammed shut behind her.

            “Well then,” said Oberyn, standing up and smoothing out his blood-orange robes. He lifted his goblet towards Tywin before taking a long sip. “I suppose it is a good thing your maester was not around to hear your daughter’s words!” With a chuckle he set the goblet back down and bowed to Tywin and then Jaime. “If you will excuse me, Lord Hand, Ser Jaime…it appears that your spider has created quite a web for us to play in.”

            Once the Viper had departed and the door had swung shut for a third time, Jaime turned to Varys and raised his brows.

            “Oh, don’t look at me," he said, moving from Jaime’s questioning gaze to Tywin’s glare. “I am but your humble servant, a mere servant of the realm. I spin no webs here, my lords.” He stood and bowed his pale, bald head. “Good day.”

 

* * *

 

         

            Oberyn allowed the heavy door to swing open, and as he stepped inside the dark cell was suddenly bathed in warm light. Tyrion squinted up at him from the floor, shielding his eyes.

            “Prince Oberyn. What a pleasant surprise. Has my father sent you to kill me already?”

            “If he did, your father has failed to provide me with my weapon of choice,” said Oberyn, crossing the cell to sit against the far wall.

            “And so instead you come to kill me with courtesies. How nice,” said the dwarf, smirking. He shifted into a more comfortable position, and Oberyn could clearly make out the filth clinging to his skin and clothing. The black cells were no place for high-born little lords. “What is the real reason you journeyed down to my shit-stained home?”

            “Your lady wife.”

            Tyrion’s eyes grew wide. “Sansa? The girl has been found? Is she…”

            Oberyn shook his head in answer, and the dwarf let out a sigh of relief. “It was your sister’s men that found the child. She was at an inn in Duskendale.”

            “And who was with her?”

            He shrugged. “She appeared to be alone. Perhaps the man that took her was more worried about his head than his prize. And the child would not say. Not even with the queen’s full force against her.”

            Tyrion nodded gravely. “Whatever my sweet sister did cannot be as cruel as Joffrey’s torture. Have you seen her since?”

            “No one has, Lord Tyrion. The queen keeps her under lock and key, still claiming the girl aided you in her son’s murder.” Oberyn gazed pointedly at the dwarf. “I came today because I want you to tell me about the girl. What she went through, who she is, what gives her pleasure and what gives her pain…I want to know, if I am to marry her.”

            For the second time, Tyrion’s eyes widened with shock and his mouth gaped open. “ _Marry_ her?”

            “I do not see you doing your husbandly duties from within a cell,” said Oberyn dryly. “Not unless you wish the lady to lie with you on this shit-stained straw you call a bed.”

            Tyrion simply glared at his jest. “I want to know how this happened. Surely Cersei would not just give her up—”

            “She would if she got something better in return. The woman cares nothing for the Stark girl and everything for the little niece you shipped away.”

            “Myrcella?” Tyrion asked, shocked.

            “A little she-lion in exchange for a little she-wolf. Myrcella will be returned to King’s Landing, her engagement broken off, and I am to take Sansa Stark to Dorne in exchange. The Hand consented—it is in his best interest to keep the girl with friends rather than risk her being carried off again…and your own union will, of course, be ended by the High Septon.” Oberyn watched Tyrion carefully as he processed this. After a moment, the dwarf nodded in understanding and Oberyn continued on. “So tell me, Lord Tyrion. Who is the girl you married?”

            Tyrion sighed. “A broken little bird. When I came back I discovered that our shit of a king had a certain liking for torturing her. He had her beaten, taunted, nearly raped. I saw the bruises and scars once we married…and they were deep ones. Too deep for a girl her age.”

            Oberyn closed his eyes, memories of his dear Elia swimming before him. He could only imagine the grotesque torture the Mountain inflicted on his sister, and he knew that Sansa’s was just the same. “And what did those scars make of her?”

            The dwarf frowned and stretched out his legs. “To be honest, I am not completely sure. She is a shy girl. She hides behind a well-trained tongue of courtesies. I’m afraid her wall very well may be as high and cold as the one to the North,” said Tyrion sadly. “I tried to get to know her, comfort her, but she rejected every offer. Do not expect much more, Price Oberyn, if she is to be yours. She deserves happiness, but she may never find it with any man.”

            Oberyn listened carefully, trying to imagine this girl Tyrion spoke so sadly of. He hadn’t ever seen her, but they said she was as beautiful and fair as her Tully mother. “Is that all of the girl? I do not want to chat too long. We are to be wed in two days and leaving right after, and there are many preparations that require a Dornishman’s touch, ” said Oberyn, rising up from the hard ground.

            “She likes lemon cakes,” Tyrion offered up.

            Oberyn grinned. “Good thing lemons are a specialty in Dorne…I thank you, Lord Tyrion. I am sorry that this is how it happened, but I will try my best to make her happy. Gods be with you for what lies ahead.”

            “And with you, Prince Oberyn.”

            Oberyn made his way back to the door, but as his hand closed around the iron handle he paused, looking back over his shoulder. “They told me the marriage was unconsummated…is this true?”

            Tyrion paused, his eyes hard and firm, before answering. “My family took everything from the poor girl. I could not—would not—take that from her as well,” said Tyrion quietly. “I have heard of your vast array of tastes though, my prince. I beg you to do the same as I. You cannot risk your own desires for her happiness. Not with her, not anymore.”

            Oberyn turned his head forwards and pulled open the door. Just as he was about to leave, he said bitterly, “We do not harm little girls in Dorne.”


	2. Chapter Two

            His sister was facing away from him, alone at the long table and staring out at the dark, cloudless sky. It had been hours since this morning and the small council meeting, and Jaime had avoided Cersei all day. Not that she had been seeking him out, either. Now, with the ends of her golden hair lifting softly in the breeze and a certain stillness in the air, he could not help but feel bad for her. Her son was dead, and both her play-thing and her brother were about to be taken away. And it didn’t help how he had acted in the sept just a day before.

            “Cersei,” he said softly, pausing in the entryway. They were in one of the formal dining chambers, but no food adorned the polished wood table.

            She did not turn. “Go away.”

            Jaime ignored this and made his way over, taking the seat to her left. He noted the wine goblet set before her, nearly empty, and the tall pitcher beside it. Slowly, Jaime made as if to take the glass away when her hand flew to his wrist.

            “Would you rather I die a more violent way?” she asked quietly. “At least I will not feel it.”

            Jaime sighed and drew back his hand. Cersei continued to stare off through the open window, lost in the inky blue. “I would prefer that you don’t die at all.”

            “And did you think that while you were away for months, playing prisoner?”

            “You know how sorry I am for that,” said Jaime firmly.

            She let out a huff. “Funny, how us women forget things. I used to think you cared for me too, and now you leave for Dorne with that murderous little bitch and that filthy dog.” Cersei took a sip, and when she set the goblet down she finally met his eyes.

            Jaime returned her glare with a frown. “I still do not see why this upsets you so much.  Your daughter—”

            “ _Our_ daughter.”

            His chest constricted. Myrcella was a lovely girl, but he was no more her father than was Robert. And it wasn’t as if that side of their relationship appealed to Jaime—his love and devotion was for Cersei, not any offspring it might produce. “ _Myrcella_ is coming home. To her mother, to safety. Why would you be upset about that?”

            In a flash of gold and black, Cersei leaned forward, hand clutching his thigh beneath the table. “Because my son’s killer will be set free and I will lose you again!” she hissed, fingernails digging in through his breeches.

            Jaime stared at her, his mouth open in something between disgust and pity. “And you care more for vengeance than for your own daughter?”

            “I care more for _you_ , Jaime! You are my flesh and blood, my heart and soul, and I need you here with me!” Suddenly, her grip softened and a pained expression crossed her fine features. Now her fingers stroked at his flesh, begging, pleading. “Please, my brother. My Jaime. Help me avenge our son’s death. You know father will never kill the Stark bitch so long as he lives.”

            He allowed himself to give in to her soft touch, a touch he had dreamed about all those days and nights away. “Lady Sansa did not do it, Cersei. She does not deserve the fate you wish on her. Besides, I have talked to Tyrion, and—”

            Her hand froze along the inside of his thigh. “ _Does not deserve_? Why should you care if she lives or dies or gets mauled by dogs?” Cersei demanded. “She is a traitorous little whore who deserves only—”

            “Deserves only whatever happiness is left in this world for her! Her entire family is _dead_ on our part, she was beat for months under your roof, and now you want to throw her in a black cell to rot as you slowly torture her to death? ”

            Cersei’s eyes blazed with anger, but her soft, stroking touch resumed. Her fingers traveled dangerously upward as she spoke. “Do you like the little she-wolf, brother? Do you like how she looks, with that Tully hair and youthful body?”

            He let out an exasperated sigh. “Cersei, you know that’s not what I meant…”

            “Because I’m not sure the promise you made to Catelyn Stark entailed fucking her daughter—”

            Jaime caught Cersei’s wrist, pinning it still. She tried to wriggle away, but Jaime had always been stronger than his twin. “Now you listen to me, Cersei. The only woman I have ever wanted to—”

            “I hope I am not interrupting something.”

            Jaime immediately released her at the voice, and he looked up at the door to see who it was. He glanced quickly at Cersei, who was glaring and rubbing her wrist, before looking back to the door.

            “Prince Oberyn,” said Jaime through his teeth. He waved his golden hand towards the table. “Not at all.”

            The Dornishman smiled cheerfully, and as he stepped inside Jaime noted the two bottles he carried.

            “Dornish wine,” Prince Oberyn clarified, setting them down and taking the seat opposite him. “In my kingdom a party has not begun until the guests’ bellies are burning with spiced wine.” As he talked, he grabbed two more goblets from the edge of the table and began to pour. Dark, sweet-smelling liquid sloshed into the cups.

            “I wouldn’t call this a party, Prince Oberyn,” said Cersei, hints of bitterness still lingering in her voice. Regardless, she pushed her own goblet forward to be refilled.

            “Better than this morning,” offered the prince.

            Jaime smirked. “Did you not enjoy your role on the small council?” he asked, sipping the wine. It really was, to Jaime’s dislike, better than the shit they drank up here.

            “Oh no, I enjoyed it very much. It is a funny thing, to see the lions and spider working together,” he said, still smiling.

            “Do not forget the old man. Maester Pycelle does hate to be left out, the foul creature,” said Cersei, raising her eyes to met the prince’s.

            Prince Oberyn raised his glass, first to Cersei, and then to Jaime. “To old men,” he said loudly. “Let them rot as the rest of us get drunk.”

            And so they did—it was an odd situation, Jaime, his twin, and the Dornishman. For a man that clearly hated Lannisters, Prince Oberyn was not bad company. He made jokes none other would dare to speak before the queen, told stories of Essos and his adventures there, and even recalled his meeting of the twins long ago, when Jaime was but a boy. According to him, Cersei had nearly thrown herself, but a maid of ten-and-two, before the older boy’s feet in an effort to be noticed. Jaime hardly recalled such an event occurring, but then again, they were two bottles deep in fine Dornish wine.

            “And—and she did what?” sputtered Jaime, slamming down his goblet.

            “I tell only the truth, Ser Jaime! Your sister sat before my toes and promised to kiss every one!”

            Cersei laughed at this, throwing her head back. The golden light of the candles caught in her hair, painting it the color of a summer sun. “Only because my handmaiden told me that was the custom in Dorne—'kiss his toes', she said!”

            “And what did you do to this clever handmaiden?” asked Oberyn, refilling his goblet.

            Cersei screwed up her face in concentration, swirling the wine in her mouth. “I believe I had her tongue removed.”

            Wine spilled over the side of Oberyn’s goblet before he could right the bottle. Jaime glanced at his twin, who was now staring out the window, lost in thought. The night air seemed to grow cool, and suddenly, Jaime didn’t feel so drunk.

            “Her tongue?” said Oberyn quietly. He did not bother to mop up the spilled wine. It sat there, pooling on the table like blood.

            “I’m sure my sister exaggerates,” said Jaime hurriedly. “She is far too deep in her cups.”

            “Oh, no,” said Cersei softly, nodding her head. “It was definitely her tongue. I remember how she screamed, writhing around on the floor like a deranged animal. Father yelled at me for hours. Don’t you remember, Jaime?” she asked, looking up. Her eyes looked glassy, and the hand holding her goblet shook slightly. “He yelled at me and said that it wasn’t my right to punish the girl. But it was, really…I was the daughter of Tywin Lannister, and I would one day be queen. Everything was my right,” she ended quietly, voice trailing off as she drank the remains of her wine.

            Jaime looked across at Oberyn, but the man was unreadable. He simply studied her, arms crossed. After a stillness that seemed to last for ages, Jaime reached for his goblet and drained the last drops before setting it down with an unsettling _thud_.  

            “I am sure you are tired, Prince Oberyn. I think it best if—”

            “No,” said Cersei sharply. She looked at the Dornishman, flushed and golden after too much wine. “I think it time Prince Oberyn saw what this little exchange bought him.” She turned to Jaime. “Go fetch her,” she said, words slurring as she pointed haphazardly towards the door. “Go fetch the Stark girl. Prince Oberyn will get a look at his blushing bride.”

            Oberyn shifted in his seat and shared a look with Jaime. “My queen, that is not necessary…”

            “Do you hear that, Jaime?” Cersei asked, ignoring the prince. “It appears I am his queen. Yours as well, if I am not mistaken. The Kingsguard serves the queen, do they not?”

            “Cersei,” warned Jaime.

            His twin again waved her hand loosely to the door. “Go,” she commanded. “Prince Oberyn and I will wait here.”

            He searched his sister’s face and found nothing but drunkenness and the ever-present anger lurking behind those emerald eyes. Slowly, he stood and exited the room, making sure that his footsteps fell heavily and his armor chinked loudly as he walked.  

            As he made his way to the other wing of the Red Keep, Jaime felt his head come down from the Dornish wine’s high, his heart steadying to a deep, pounding beat. He hated his twin when she became like this, angry and drunk, more beautiful fool than queen. Prince Oberyn, he was sure, had no wish to see the girl like this.

            Jaime knocked on the girl’s door—he only knew the one because Cersei had commanded him to stand guard after her escape. He had not, however, seen the child since. And what he saw when the door swung timidly open sent his stomach plunging.

            From the dim light of the sconces, Jaime could make out a grotesque, purple bruise that covered her pale face from cheek to jaw. Her lips, now parted in surprise and fear, were swollen, with dried blood congealing in one corner. And this was just her face—there was no telling what other bruises, cuts, and scars covered the rest of her.

            “Ser Jaime?” she asked, hand trembling on the door. She looked behind him in fear, probably thinking the queen sought to punish her in the middle of the night. _And she is not wrong_. “I—I was not expecting…” Sansa wrapped her robe tighter about her thin frame and glanced nervously up.

            There was something so sad about the broken creature that stood before him, red curls splayed loosely about her shoulders and eyes wide, fearful yet tearless. She had to be strong, to endure what she had. Jaime knew he could have just grabbed her right there, dragged her back to his sister. He was a Kingsguard, after all…but something held him back.

            “Lady Sansa,” he started quietly. He cleared his throat. “The Queen has requested your company. If you will come with me, my lady.” Jaime held up his arm.

            After a moment of hesitation, a look of steeled complacency crossed her bruised face and the girl stepped from the doorway. She laid a quivering hand upon his steel-plated arm and closed the door behind her. As they walked down the halls in silence, Jaime glanced down. She was thinner than last he saw, and the silk robe hung away from her body. Her nightdress appeared too small, a remnant of her early days at the keep, and its low neckline exposed the sharpness of her collar, the white laced with purple of her skin.

            He halted outside the chamber’s door, and Sansa’s grip tightened every so slightly on his arm.

            “I will not let her hurt you,” Jaime muttered, pulling open the door.

            “I doubt that very much, my lord.” Without looking to him, Sansa allowed Jaime to lead her inside.

            Prince Oberyn remained at the table, but Cersei now paced along the length of the room, a goblet clutched in her hand. She stilled when they stepped inside.

            “There is the little dove,” said Cersei, her voice sickly sweet. She took a deep drink before returning to her chair and setting the goblet down. “Bring her closer, brother.”

            Jaime obliged and led Sansa over to stand in the center of the room. The girl’s eyes were downcast, her free arm wrapped protectively around her waist. The prince’s eyes roamed over the girl’s body, darkening.

            “Now sit, Jaime.”

            He did as commanded, stiffly returning to his seat beside the queen.

            “Show us your face, Sansa.”

            The girl trembled, hugging herself with both arms now. She lifted her face just slightly.

            “More than that, little dove. And drop your arms.” Cersei’s words began to slur once again—it was obvious that she had not stopped drinking.

            As if fighting her own body, the girl dropped her arms and lifted her face completely. Oberyn gasped as the light hit her face.

            “Why did you do this?” Prince Oberyn demanded, his dark eyes turning to Cersei.

            His sister waved a hand in indifference. “Because I _could_ , I suppose. I am the queen, and she is a murderous little whore. Sansa,” she called out. “Step closer and drop your robe.”

            Sansa’s eyes darted to Jaime—he returned her look with a slight nod. _I cannot save you,_ he wanted to say. Slowly, fingers trembling, Sansa untied her robe and let it pool at her feet before taking a few steps forward. Her eyes remained unfocused, looking ahead at the dark night beyond the keep.

            “Do you like what you see, Prince Oberyn? She is to be your wife.”

            The Dornishman glared at Cersei, refusing to look any longer at the girl. “I see a lion’s claws,” he hissed, voice low and dangerous. “I see her body and it reminds me of Elia’s. I see a girl who has nothing left because of a _lion_ who has nothing better to do than hurt innocent girls!” He stood suddenly, chest heaving in rage. “Lady Stark,” he called out.

            “Oberyn,” Jaime warned. His sister stared at the Dornishman, eyes wild with anger. He knew his sister would not rest until she got her way, and it would not end well for anyone that opposed.

            “Lady Stark,” the prince repeated, stepping away from the table. He swiftly approached the quaking girl, and Sansa flinched back as if expecting him to hit her. Jaime’s golden hand instinctively went to his hip, but Oberyn stopped short and bent down to retrieve the discarded robe.

            “Put this back on,” he commanded in a low voice. The girl did as he said, hastily covering herself. “Ser Jaime will return you to your chambers.” He looked over his shoulder. “If I wish to punish the girl, I will do so myself.”

            Jaime looked from the prince to his sister, then slowly stood and took the girl’s arm once again. Oberyn met his eyes with a warning, and Jaime nodded. He knew his twin had gone too far, and he would pay the consequences in the morning. As he lead her from the chamber, Jaime heard the prince’s voice, indistinguishable through the walls,  followed by the ringing of glass on stone.

 

* * *

 

          

           As soon as the door shut behind her, Sansa walked, limbs moving stiffly and by themselves, to her bed. Then her body gave out, collapsing on the mattress. She hugged her knees to her chest, wanting only to cover herself and hide from this terrible, terrible world. As sobs wracked her body, Sansa’s chest convulsed, heaving and tearing and burning. The queen’s words rang through her ears— _wife, wife, wife_ —and an unmistakable sense of dread filled her from within.

            She was to be wed again. And this time, to a viper.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a short one, but the one you are probably waiting for should be up soon! Thanks for reading!

A hand closed around Sansa’s upper arm, instantly waking her from her sleep. Eyes snapping open, Sansa gasped and sat up, throwing the hand off.

            “My lady, you are all right!”

            Sansa looked to the voice and released the breath clinging in fear to her lungs. It was just Shae, her almost sister-like handmaiden. “I—I’m sorry Shae. I don’t know what came over me…” Sansa pushed the covers to the side, and as she did so the hem of her nightgown lifted, exposing her legs. Weak sunlight from the window seemed to highlight the ugliness—the scars, the scratches, the bruises.

            “Well I do, my lady,” said Shae sadly. She gently tugged the dress back down, shielding Sansa from herself. Sansa knew her handmaiden meant well, but she would almost rather look upon her own ugliness than have it hidden away, as if it were a crime. She had grown up expected to be beautiful, and now she didn’t even have that.

            Once Sansa was up, she peered outside and frowned. “Why did you wake me before dawn?”

            Shae wrung her hands and stared at her feet. “It is the queen…”

            Fear coursed through her—the word meant only one thing nowadays. Sansa chided herself for once looking up to the awful woman. “She wishes to question me? Now?” For the past several days Cersei had called upon her to ask about Joffrey’s murder and her escape, and she never came alone. After the events of last night and Ser Meryn’s visit that past morning, Sansa had prayed to be left to herself.

            “I believe so, my lady. Only they want you in the Lord Hand’s chambers, I was told.”

            _The Hand?_ Sansa trembled at the thought, the largest scar along her thigh prickling. “I—I suppose you should dress me then…” she said quietly. Shae nodded, and their eyes met in solemn understanding.

 

* * *

 

           

“Bring her in,” came Lord Tywin’s voice from behind the door. The guard by her side yanked open the door and nearly pushed her inside.

            The queen, Lord Tywin, and, surprisingly, a septon sat inside the spacious quarters, all staring at her with various degrees of coldness. While the Hand sat behind his great oak desk, three chairs stood opposite, with the middle unoccupied.

            Only the thin, older septon gave any semblance of a greeting, raising his fingers just slightly from where they clasped in his lap. When none spoke and the septon stilled his feeble hand, Sansa took a tiny step forward and nervously smoothed the skirt of her white gown. Shae had thought it best if she dress as childlike as possible—the high-necked and pale gown certainty qualified—but now, with three sets of icy eyes upon her, Sansa was not so sure it mattered at all. These were Lannisters. They would punish her regardless.

            It was the septon who finally interrupted the lions’ bitter silence. “Is this the one, your grace?” he wheezed out, as if struggling for air.

            “Obviously,” snapped Cersei. She then turned in her seat and smiled sweetly. “Sit, Lady Sansa,” she said, immediately changing her tone. “Lord Tywin and I have some questions for you, little dove. Just a few, then this septon can nullify your vows to the Imp. Could you do that for us?”

            Sansa nodded hesitantly then took the middle chair. She was surrounded, and her body screamed to get away. While her body roared in protest, all nerves seemingly on fire, Sansa set her eyes before her, looking only to Lord Tywin. At least he did not scowl or glare like the queen—he merely stared, cold and calculating.

            “As your lord husband is accused of the late king’s murder, you are to be wed to Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne. In accordance with the Seven, it is said that any marriage may be annulled so long as the marriage remained unconsummated,” said Lord Tywin sternly. “Are you aware of this, child?”

            “I—I am.”

            “And you are aware that it is a great crime to lie to the Crown?”

            She glanced sideways to Cersei, who smirked. Again her scar prickled. “I am.”

            Lord Tywin nodded curtly. “Then we shall begin.”

            The septon shifted so that he faced her, beckoning her closer with a finger. Nervously, Sansa obliged and scooted to the end of her seat. His weary eyes scanned her up and down. “Have you slept with Lord Tyrion?” he asked suddenly, his entire demeanor changing from that of a sickly old man to a sharp, quick-speaking one.

            Sansa swallowed thickly and looked at her hands. “No.”

            “You haven’t shared a bed?”

            “I—not like that. We slept beside each other, as man and wife, but—”

            “And he didn’t touch you?”

            “Not in that way—”

            “But he did touch you?”

            “Only properly, not like—”

            “Where?”

            “I—I don’t know—”

            “On your leg, your breast, your mouth? _Inside_ you?”

            Sansa’s cheeks burned, and she willed her eyes to remain dry. She hated this, hated it, with them all staring and questioning her like some common whore. “Merely on the knee, my lord!” she said hurriedly, turning to Lord Tywin helplessly. _I will not cry, I will not cry_. _I am a wolf, and I will not cry._ She just knew that at the first hint of falseness he would punish her worse than Cersei or Joffrey had ever done. “Lord—Lord Tyrion had been drinking, and I was a stupid, stupid little girl—but nothing ever happened, nothing, I swear!” Sansa sat back in her chair, gasping for breath.

            There was a pause, and Lord Tywin surveyed her with narrowed eyes. Then he nodded, first to the Septon, and then to Sansa. “It appears that the marriage was indeed unconsummated. Septon, if you will—”

            “Wait.”

            Lord Tywin turned his gaze and stared coldly at the queen. “Yes?”

            Cersei looked at Sansa, frowning with fake concern. “What of the little dove’s escape? How can we be sure her captor didn’t steal anything…precious?”

            Sansa thought for a moment that the Hand was going to smack his own daughter. “Are you trying to stop this marriage, your grace? Against your king’s wishes?”

            Cersei shrugged innocently. “I merely think of Prince Oberyn’s well-being. We cannot delivery faulty goods. After all, a Lannister always pays his debts, does he not?”

            The hand glowered at Cersei, then turned his eyes to Sansa. “Well? I am aware that you refuse to speak of your escape, but perhaps you will grace us with an answer.”

            “I…” her voice faltered, and Sansa hurriedly took a breath before continuing, racking her brains for what to say. “My captor did not have a chance to, my lord.”

            “Did not have a chance?”

            “No—I escaped before then. I knew it right to return at once to the Red Keep, my Lord. I love the king and queen, and I did not want to disappoint his grace…I made sure to return with my…my virtue intact.”

            He stared at her, and Sansa nearly thought he hadn’t believed it. Then, the Hand slowly rose from his seat, gesturing for her to do the same. “You will be escorted to the sept to have your vows to Lord Tyrion annulled. Your wedding to Prince Oberyn will be a small affair, and it is take place this afternoon.” He clapped his hands, and a guard appeared at the door.

            Just as the guard began to lead her from the chamber, she heard Lord Tywin say to Cersei, “Now get out. I have better things to do than hear about how my son fucked or failed to fuck anything but his whore.”


	4. Chapter Four

            “My lady, what are you doing?”

            Sansa stared at herself in the long mirror. “I need to find a suitable dress,” she told Shae, running her hands across the lifeless, grey skirt. “For my second wedding…”

            In the reflection, Sansa saw Shae smile sadly. Her handmaiden then approached her, taking her shoulders and giving them a squeeze. “You do not know that it will be so bad.”

            Sansa watched herself frown. “How can it be better? I am to marry the Viper, the most vulgar and dangerous man in Dorne. He’s more than twice my age and has eight bastard daughters.”

            “Fine then, it will be worse.”

            “Worse than Lord Tyrion?”

            “Lord Tyrion did not hit you—he did not even touch you.”

            Sansa craned her neck to look at Shae. “How do you know that?”

            A strange look passed over her handmaiden’s face, but once Sansa looked back to the mirror, it was gone. “Because you would have told me if he had,” she said fiercely. Shae released Sansa’s shoulders, bending down to lift the hem of her dress for a moment. A thin blade, bound in leather, hung against her thigh. “I would not let any man harm you.”

            Just as the corners of her mouth began to lift, the door swung open. Sansa’s smile faltered as she caught a glimpse of gold in the reflection. _But it is not a man that hurts me now_.

            Cersei strode across the chamber and waved a hand at Shae. “Out,” she commanded. “I will ready the little dove myself.”

            Shae’s reflection gave an encouraging smile before it disappeared. Sansa now turned to find the queen sitting on the edge of her bed, eyes roaming up and down the dreary gown.

            “Sansa, dear, what do you think you’re wearing?”

            “I—I thought it might be suitable for the ceremony,” said Sansa shyly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and staring down at her skirt. “With no time for preparation—”

            “Not the stupid _dress_ , child. The color. Did you think yourself clever for dressing in your father’s colors?”

            Sansa’s jaw clenched. “No, your grace.”

            “That your new husband would _want_  a traitor’s daughter as a wife?”

            “No, your grace,” she repeated, quieter this time. 

            Cersei smirked and pushed herself up from the mattress. “ _Your grace_ ,” she said in a high, mocking tone. “Funny, isn’t it? How you were going to be queen once?”

            Sansa bit her cheek, trying to ignore the fire creeping up her neck. “I—it is my only wish to serve the crown in whatever way I can.”

            The queen laughed. “Of course it is, little dove.” She walked over until they were just inches apart, Cersei’s tall form looming over her own. A hand reached out and untucked the lock of hair from behind her ear. Sansa held her breath as the queen’s long fingers wound around the auburn curl. “And even after that dog has fucked you from King’s Landing to Dorne, you will still belong to me.”

            “I don’t understand,” said Sansa, watching the coil grow tighter and tighter, now halfway to its roots.

            “Then think of it this way, little dove.” Cersei’s hand paused, the lock of hair taunt around her finger. “Your firstborn daughter will be betrothed to Tommen’s firstborn son,” she said softly, pulling the lock down so that Sansa’s scalp began to prick with pain. “That babe will be ripped from your breast while you sleep and raised in the capital.” With her free hand, Cersei reached down, lifting the hem of her skirt and in the process pulling harder at Sansa’s hair. Sansa bit back a cry as she looked down. The queen wore a holster not unlike Shae’s, except her blade was wrought with gold and shining, blood-red stones.

            “No, no, please your grace,” Sansa whimpered as the queen straightened herself.

            “And if that child displeases me in any way…” Cersei continued on, ignoring her plea. She began moving the blade towards Sansa’s chin, and Sansa’s eyes nearly crossed in an effort to keep the razor-edged steel in sight. “Well then…I suppose it won’t be a good day for wolves,” she finished, her voice barely above a whisper. The knife stilled, and just as Sansa released a breath, Cersei’s hand suddenly whipped to the side, shearing off the coiled-up lock with one screeching swoop.

            The auburn curl fell to the floor. Cersei stepped back and tucked away the blade. She smiled. “Do you understand?”

            Sansa closed her eyes. She felt her heart tearing rapidly through her chest, lungs searching desperately for air that would not come. _This_ was the torture she hated the most. _This_ humiliated her, made her burn with shame, made her tremble day and night. Torture wasn’t hitting or burning or flaying. That was violence. Torture was seizing power from another until they had nothing left. Torture was one woman cutting off the hair of another and smiling as it fell.

            She opened her eyes. “Yes, your grace.” Sansa looked down—the hair remaining in that spot was jagged at its tips, and it hung only half as long as the rest. She met Cersei’s eyes and said, in a hoarse whisper, “I understand.”

            The queen seemed pleased by this, and she gave Sansa a once-over before making her way back to the chamber door. “Oh, and Sansa,” she called out. “Wear a red gown. Those Stark colors won’t protect you from bleeding tonight.”

            The door slammed shut behind her, and Sansa brought her fingers to her hair. Slowly, she turned and once again examined herself if the mirror. Bruises, scratches, and scars littered her body, but the uneven lock stood out more than a mark ever could.

 

* * *

 

 

            He watched her as the vows were said, and she watched their intertwined hands. The girl’s hair hung loose about her shoulders, and the crimson of her gown was no match for its coopery luster. Oberyn let his eyes travel over his pale bride—she was not looking, nor, he expected, would she object. The capital trained its little birds well, and Sansa Stark was no exception. She was beautiful, young, and broken. He saw that now, as he swore to protect her. He saw it as he wrapped the cloak around her shoulders, and he saw it as her eyes grew wide upon the chaste meeting of their lips.

            Oberyn pulled away and squeezed his bride’s hands. _Let the Seven have their vows. I make my own today._

            Polite clapping rang throughout the near empty sept—only a handful of lords and ladies had bothered to attend. As they stepped down from the raised dais, hand in hand, Oberyn met Cersei’s eyes. No doubt the lack of audience was her doing. This wedding wasn’t a spectacle, a jest, for her to present to the court. There was no demon-monkey with his child bride. It was simply the losing end of an exchange, and if Oberyn recalled correctly, lions rarely lost.

            After a silent litter ride back to the Red Keep, Oberyn found himself by his wife’s side in the great hall. A strained, cheerful tune played from the singer’s lips in the corner, and a dozen or so colorful guests danced cordially on the polished stone floor. _What a dull affair_ , thought Oberyn as he swallowed his flavorless wine and stared, bored, at the twirling little lords and ladies. He glanced over at Sansa. She sat as she had for the past two hours—plate and cup untouched, chest rising and falling dramatically inside its stiff corset, pale hands folded in her lap.

            Oberyn set the wine down. The girl’s eyes darted towards him, then back to the dancers. She knew he was watching her. The tops of her breasts rose quicker above their crimson cage.

            “Are you spying on me, my lady?” he teased.

            “N—no, my prince,” she said quickly.

            Oberyn laughed. “But is it a crime for a lady to spy upon her husband?”

            This time she fully glanced at him. “If it goes against his wishes.”

            His smile faltered. He had meant the comment in jest, not as some a test of sorts. Oberyn took the last swig of his wine, grimacing, then stood. He offered a hand, which she stared at uncertainly. “And if he wishes a dance with his lady wife?”

            Oberyn led her to the floor and placed one hand upon her slender waist, the other on her open palm. As a new, slower song took hold of the hall, Oberyn swiftly drew her body to his chest and led her in the dance…

           

* * *

 

 

            The sharp sound of gold on gold cut the music off, and Oberyn, after a second of hesitation, dropped his bride’s waist and turned. The dancers slowly stilled, their blurring pinks and blues and greens fading back to silk, and their plump, empty faces gazed up to the high table in expectation. Oberyn led Sansa back to their seats, then mirrored their gaze.

            King Tommen, rather sleepy with the heavy crown that rested low upon his brow, set down the knife and goblet. Then his mother stood, golden and radiant as always, to address the court. Oberyn noted that the pretty Tyrell girl, who sat by Tommen’s side, rolled her eyes as the queen rose. “We thank you, lords and ladies, for attending this _beautiful_ ceremony. Let us all drink”–she held up a goblet—“to Prince Oberyn Martell and his bride, Princess Sansa Martell.”

            Oberyn glanced to his bride as her name was called—no hint of recognition passed over her face, which now appeared even paler than before.

            Cersei sat back down and put a hand on her son’s arm. “Your grace, it is time to call the bedding ceremony.”

            From their proximity to the queen and king, Oberyn could make out Tommen’s whisper. “But Lady Margery _said_ that it would be better to do without—”

            “Tommen, you are king, if you command a ceremony—”

            “Queen Cersei,” said Oberyn loudly, winking at Sansa before standing. He pulled her up beside him. “I fear all this talk of bedding has made me very…hungry for a sleep.”

            The court below tinkered with laughter before Cersei’s eyes swept across the room. Tommen stirred uncomfortably by her side. “If the king requests the proper customs—”

            “And do you, your grace?” asked Oberyn, smiling down at the boy king. “Do you know what happens to a Dornishman if he waits too long to ‘sleep’? Perhaps I may enlighten his grace—”

            “Enough,” said Lord Tywin, speaking for the first time. Oberyn smirked. “Take your bride and go, Prince Oberyn.”

            With Cersei’s eyes boring into the back of his head and a court flying with whispers and laughter, Oberyn took Sansa’s hand and led her from the hall. He noticed, in passing, that Jaime was gone from his post by the wall. 

 

* * *

         

           Oberyn poured himself some wine—the Dornish kind—and turned his gaze to Sansa. He had been doing that a lot in the past few days, Oberyn realized, and a smirk crossed his face. Drinking and adoring beautiful things were somewhat of a specialty.

            “Would you care for some?” he asked, now surveying the room. It was a chamber he hadn’t stayed in yet, much larger than his previous one, and now he took in the rich velvet drapery, the crimson feather bed, the low glow of candlelight casting every surface in blood. _Even in here_ , Oberyn thought bitterly _, the Lannisters send their regards_.

            Sansa nodded, and he poured a second glass. When she took it, her arms barely lifted from their protective position around her waist. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

            Drinking deeply, Sansa drained the glass and set it down on the dresser. She wrung her hands and looked around the dimly lit room with wide eyes.

            “Have you heard of Elia Martell?” Oberyn asked, setting his glass down as well.

            “Your sister. She was to be Prince Rhaegar’s queen.”

            “And look what they do to queens here…you remind me of her, Lady Sansa.”

            Sansa stared out the dark window, lost in thought. “They killed her,” she said softly.

            Oberyn approached her. “The Lannister’s torture of innocent girls is not what reminds me…my dear Elia was very strong. I see that in you as well.” He brushed a stray piece of hair from Sansa’s cheek, in doing so revealing the swollen bruise, now unmasked after a night of dancing. Because of her gown’s low neckline, he could see that the mark went far lower than just her face. The girl flinched at his touch, and Oberyn quickly drew his fingers away. “Why did she do this to you?”

            “It is the queen’s right to punish those who do wrong,” she replied, the words leaping effortlessly from her tongue.

            Oberyn’s chest swelled with anger. _Elia, Elia…is that what the Mountain told you as he raped you? That you did something wrong as his blood-stained hands wrapped around your throat?_ “The queen’s right…” He wanted to laugh, to hit, to kill that damned woman and every other lion.

            “As it is now yours, my lord husband.” Sansa eyes lifted demurely to meet his own. She straightened her spine, jaw clenched, waiting with silent defiance.

            “You think I would harm you?” He demanded, voice low. “That a prince of Dorne would leave such a mark upon his wife’s skin?”

            “If it pleases you, my prince.”

            “Is that the song they told you to sing?”

            “If it—”

            Oberyn turned on his heel, and her words faltered. He strode back to the small table in the center, sloshing wine into his goblet. The spiced red streamed down his throat, and when it was gone, Oberyn set the goblet down with a _thud._ Then he turned back to the girl. She met his eyes with fear, and Oberyn’s shoulders relaxed, his arms fell loosely to his side, and a pained expression crossed his face.

            “In Dorne, we do not teach little birds how to sing. We teach them how to fly.”

            Sansa’s lips parted, saying nothing. Oberyn walked back over and lifted his hands, palms up. His brows raised in silent question, and she nodded slightly. Folding his hands over her own, Oberyn let his thumb rub gently over her soft skin. She leaned into his grip and closed her eyes—a deep, long-held breath escaped, and in that moment, with his taste of comfort, she was miles away in some cold, Northern place called home.

            Oberyn brought one hand to his lips and kissed it. She looked up, large blue eyes painted with the habitual fear and hidden pain, but also with something else, something new. An understanding passed between them, silent and lovely. He brought her hand back down, and she breathed again.

            “This marriage was no choice of your own, my lady, and for that I am sorry. They stole so much from you, and I hate to be part of that…but we are married now. One heart, one flesh. If it is your wish, my lady, we do not have to be lovers. We do not even have to be friends. But let us at least be honest with one another. Let us at least have that.”

            Her lips parted once more, and she looked down at their hands before meeting his eyes. “I would like that, Prince Oberyn.”

            “Just Oberyn,” he reminded gently.

            The corners of her pink mouth lifted. “Oberyn…”

            They spent the next hours in a growing state of intimacy—not one of flesh, but one of words. As he sat on one end of the undisturbed bed, she sat with her back against the headboard, legs crossed beneath her gown with childish ease. He asked her of King’s Landing, of family, of home. Her answers came timidly at first, steeped in the queen’s sweet song. But as the black sky grew impossibly darker, their candles burning red and low, words breathed freer, their meaning unopposed. Oberyn smiled, a true, joyous smile, as her hands unclasped and her body dropped its stiff composure. Sansa was laughing, stories and tales tumbling out just like the loose, lovely curls sprawled against her shoulders—it was as if a wall had fallen, though just the outer one, and her need to connect washed powerfully from her lips to his ear. It was a powerful thing, to see a bird look down and discover wings.  

            Oberyn laughed as a tale of “Arya-underfoot” came to its close, watching Sansa’s lips refuse to drop into the mask they once wore. She blinked sleepily and gazed at the intricate, embroidered comforter, lost in a wintery and happy past. The candles were nearly to their bases now, the sky just hours from a misty dawn.

            Sensing the late hour, or maybe just because they had both gone quiet, Sansa uncurled her legs, staring at her feet with interest. “I fear I may never sleep if we continue on,” she said quietly.

            “Would you mind if we slept beside one another?” asked Oberyn. “If not, I am fine on the chaise…”

            Sansa shook her head and smiled weakly. “Of course not, my—Oberyn.” She made as if to pull back the covers, but Oberyn leaned over and placed a hand on hers.

            “You would sleep in that rib-crushing thing?” he teased. Oberyn stood and gestured for her to do the same. “Come here, I will help you out.”

            She walked over, her back towards him, and pulled her long hair to one side. Her pale, bare neck and upper back shone in the fading light, and Oberyn could not help but feel attraction to this girl. Yes, she was far too young, And yes, she had suffered so at the hands of the lions. But she was a stunning, strong creature nonetheless, and it was that quiet strength that drew him in the most. It radiated from within, casting a light upon her milky skin, her flaming hair, her sea-blue eyes—her noble features were more stunning cause of it.

            With carefully trained fingers, Oberyn began to pull at the silk laces, letting them fall softly to the side. Underneath her shift was loose and white—far more suitable than that crimson cage she wore about her breast. As the gown fell away, Oberyn saw the many scars, far more than he expected, that lined her back.

            “Does it hurt anymore?” he asked gently, tracing the raised pattern with his eye. He felt an urge to run his finger down them, to touch the scars and make her whole.

            “Not those,” she said softly. Sansa turned then, stepping out of the gown in the process. She looked up into his eyes. “They are ugly, I know.”

            Oberyn cupped her chin with both hands and drew her closer. “Scars show the world your strength,” he said, looking down at her soft lips. “They are beautiful.”

            Sansa’s gaze flicked to his lips as well, then returned to his eyes. A faint blush creeped up her neck. “Do you have any?” she asked shyly, glancing away.

            He smiled, rubbing his thumb along her soft skin. “Many, my lady. I will show you, if you wish. But let us save it for another day.” Oberyn dropped her face, and a hint of something flickered across before she nodded, turning back towards the bed. He crawled into his own side, and she into hers, and together they lay in the fading darkness. As his eyes grew heavier, Oberyn almost imagined a hand taking his own, and he smiled to the night.

           


	5. Chapter Five

Jaime watched the crew from his window overlooking the Blackwater, squinting into the high-noon sun. _The Laughing Lioness_ was docked in the gently swelling bay, her gleaming hull bobbing lazily in the water as the tiny people moved about, their bodies like scurrying beetles from Jaime’s castle view. It was a merchant’s ship gifted to the crown’s fleet, and Jaime now smirked at its absurd name—he highly doubted Myrcella would be _laughing_ as he dragged her golden head back to the capital. Word had it that the girl and her betrothed were quite taken with each other.

            Far below two new figures emerged from the keep’s shadow, and Jaime watched curiously as they strolled, arm in arm, towards the ship. _So the couple makes an appearance at last._

Red hair glinted in the sun as she suddenly turned, pointing up at the keep. Her companion followed, and a strange uneasiness plunged through Jaime’s stomach—he quickly stepped out of frame to watch. She could have been talking about him, for all he knew. Sansa appeared to be recalling something, and Oberyn nodded, gravely it seemed, before taking her raised hand and pulling her towards his chest, turning so that their backs faced the keep. She struggled against him—the pit in his stomach deepened—before spinning back around, laughter painted on her face and curls bouncing in the breeze. Oberyn darted for her again, and she laughed once more.

            Jaime yanked the curtains shut. He had been certain the Viper was frightening the girl—yanking her hand back, forcing her to his chest. But then she laughed. Could Sansa Stark _enjoy_ the Dornishman’s company? He shouldn’t care—didn’t—but still a queer feeling lingered, something he’d felt only once before. It was when he learned who Cersei shared her bed with while he was away. Jaime turned away from the window, shaking his head. He had better things to do than dwell on some child and her husband.

           

* * *

 

 

            “It is a crime to leave your queen unattended, you know.”

            Jaime stopped short but refused to turn. He kept his eyes ahead, transfixed on the dark water beyond the open-air corridor in which he stood.  “The queen has other Kingsguard to protect her,” said Jaime slowly. A passing sailor glanced in as he passed, then hastily continued on when he saw the infamous Kingslayer in the doorway.

            Two hands snaked around his waist, and Jaime sighed as he leaned back against his twin’s soft body. Her hair brushed his arms, her fingers brushed his skin, and his nerves ignited. “I prefer you, brother,” she whispered against him. “I always prefer you.”

            Jaime reached his left hand up, his fingers fitting perfectly around the nape of her neck to gently massage as he spoke. “Even when I was gone?” Her body stiffened slightly at his words, and Jaime suddenly pulled her in front of him, holding her flush to his heaving chest.

            “Always,” she said, emerald eyes flashing.

            Jaime tilted his head and kissed her mouth—they pulled away, his lip lingering in her teeth for just too long. Blood coursed to his lip, filling him with a need to grab her, kiss her, take her right there in the stone corridor. He closed his eyes, imagining his sister’s sweet body as she turned through the darkness to face him, when a sea of wild red floated to the surface, swirling against a pale chest. Jaime opened his eyes, and only gold filled his view.

            “I have to board the ship now,” he grunted, beginning to push past her.

            A hand clutched his. “I know what you did.”

            Jaime squared his shoulders, tilting his head. He yanked his hand free. “I don’t know what you’re—”

            “Yes you do,” Cersei hissed. “You set that vile, drunken demon free.”

            “And did you tell father?”

            Cersei laughed, but Jaime did not bother to see her golden, contorted face. “You think I want my only brother sent to The Wall?”

            “Tyrion’s your brother too,” said Jaime softly.

            “You saved our son’s killer!”

            Jaime looked over his shoulder, and his face fell back into a mask. “And now I’ll save our daughter.”

 

* * *

 

 

            The ship was just as busy as before, but now the deck was laden with crates, barrels, and a loudly-singing Dornishman.

            Jaime smirked as Oberyn, his arm draped loosely over a man’s shoulders, came to the end of a rather off-key and slightly drunken rendition of “The Dornishman’s Wife”.

            “Bit crass, don’t you think?” he asked, striding aboard across the wide plank. He approached the group—Oberyn, the captain, and a handful of men—and motioned to the nearby cabin boy. The dark-haired youth scurried forward, handing Jaime a skin of wine. “With you actually _having_ a wife now?”

            Oberyn grinned, tapping his own wine against Jaime’s. “Ser Jaime, I thought we’d be waiting till dark for that pretty blonde head to show up!” He untangled himself from the captain and walked over, sitting on a tall, nearby crate and leaning his back against the rail. “And why don’t you ask her yourself, if my wife objects to this song?” Oberyn gestured, and Jaime craned his neck to look.

            Sansa approached, climbing the stairs from below deck with a faint smile playing on her lips. Her hands were clasped, just her fingers visible beneath the long, silken sleeves. She took her place by Oberyn’s side. “What is this?” she asked, brows raised.

            “Ser Jaime believes that you do not enjoy my fine singing,” said Oberyn, smirking. His hand went idly to her upper back, and the girl seemed to lean in to his touch.

            “I suspect I’d better get used to it,” she responded playfully, unclasping her hands.  She brushed a stray lock—it was oddly shorter than the rest—behind her ear. It fell defiantly back in place by her cheek.  “How long is this journey, again?”

            “I’d say about—”

            “Two months,” Oberyn interjected. He smirked at Jaime apologetically then brushed at the same, stubborn lock of hair, his tanned, calloused fingers against milky, soft skin. “I believe we Dornishmen know much more about the sea than the lions curled up in their crimson keep.”

            “And are there cliffs in Dorne?” Jaime questioned.

            “There are not,” Oberyn admitted, his tone light and playful.

            “So I don’t suppose you learned, as a boy, the correct way to jump into the sea from two-thousand feet up?”

            Oberyn’s dark eyes narrowed just, the corners of his lips jerking upwards. “No, I do not suppose so. Perhaps you should show us one day.”

            Eyes locked, Jaime returned the Viper’s coy smile. “I don’t know how your young wife would like that,” he said after a pause. “Married men do not have the luxury of such dangerous lives.”

            “There are other ways of living dangerously, my friend,” said Oberyn. To his left, a dark blush crept up Sansa’s neck, and she cast her eyes to her feet. _Has the prince not yet consummated his marriage?_ Jaime wondered as Sansa wrung her hands, showing even more her discomfort. Oberyn payed no mind to his blushing bride. “Something an unmarried, pretty knight should know all about this…this _living_ dangerously.”

            Jaime’s eyes hardened, and he set his jaw. His teeth ground together. _Of course the fucking Prince of Dorne knows…everyone knows._ Jaime wondered faintly if Sansa understood what they were talking about—then again, Cersei’s tongue was always too loose around the child. It was likely the whole Red Keep knew about the queen’s relationship with her twin. _Not that anyone’d dare say a thing…even with one hand the Kingslayer is a name feared._

            Finally, Jaime unhinged his jaw and bowed his head slightly, forcing a pleasant smile on his lips. “If you will excuse me, Prince Oberyn…Princess Sansa.” Sansa’s eyes darted to him, her pretty neck still flushed and red, and nodded in return.

            As Jaime made his way from the two, he happened a glance back over his shoulder. Sansa was smiling once again, now perched on the Viper’s leg as he sat atop the crate. He was trying to get her to taste his wine—when the skin reached her pink lips, her mouth soured innocently with distaste and Oberyn laughed.

            _She appears happy_ … _how my sweet sister would loath it._

 

* * *

 

 

            Thunder pulsed through the wooden planks, sending shivers from sky to ship. Sansa turned her gaze to the high-set slit of glass just in time to see the heavens bathed in white. Her heart beat faster, and Sansa squeezed shut her eyes and drew her knees to her chest. It was just a storm, perhaps a mild one, and a lady of the north ought not to be afraid…yet here she was, cheeks stained with salt as the sky beat down like fists from above. Sansa willed herself to fall asleep, told herself that the storm would end and the sun would break through the watery sky, that her strange, new husband would return to her at dawn.

            Sansa drifted towards that dark place between wake and sleep, where dreams ran wild and reality teased relentlessly. She could feel the soft linen on her cheek, taste the bitter salt on her lips, but still her mind drew out memories, played them before her eyes as clearly as the day. As the storm beat down faster, its fists became a woman’s, golden and cruel. Then her fists became a man’s, and as his bloodied knuckles reached her chest, the nightmare plunged forward, and the haunted memory began.

            _Sansa pressed her back to the wall, willing herself not to cry. The shadowed hall drew echoes from the tavern below, perfect for eavesdropping until one learned too much. Then it was too late. Littlefinger’s drunken, sloppy words to his men played ceaselessly in her ear._

_“And do you know what he said, the noble Eddard Stark? What he said as my blade pressed up against his fucking throat? He said ‘protect my daughter, for the love you bear my wife’…and do you know what I said to that?” The men jeered, their cups slamming heavily into the tables._

_“I said I’ll fuck your daughter, for the love I bear your wife!”_

_Their roars still lingering in her ear, Sansa shakily rose and began to creep back towards her room. Halfway down, her slipper pressed into the floor, and it seemed to groan in protest. She looked down—her foot rested on thick carpet. A voice sounded from behind._

_“Don’t stop now, sweetling. You almost made it back.”_

_Her heart thudded against her ribs, and every nerve was on alert. Sansa turned slowly, and stood, rigid, as Littlefinger came towards her through the dark. Just as he stopped before her, the sound of thunder clapped, low and terrible. His once masked face glowed pale in the sky’s blinding light._

_“Please—Lord Baelish—I p-promise I wasn’t—”_

_He suddenly grabbed her face, roughly forcing her to meet his eyes. He sneered, rubbing his thumb over her lips. Sansa shuddered at the touch, whimpering. “At the capital I reward my little birds for eavesdropping…would you like me to reward you?”_

_Sansa let out a cry of protest, but it was cut off as his hand clapped over her mouth. She kicked out, tried to sink her teeth into the hand, but it was to no avail. Littlefinger dragged her forward, towards her room, and kicked open the door. He pushed her towards the bed, the sky broke open, and a hand went for her bodice. He tore at the laces as the window flashed white—Sansa screamed and the heavens screamed louder—a hand groped her breast and a hardness pressed against her thigh—_

_“Lord Baelish!”_

_The hand stilled, and the sky cried out. A guard stood in the open door, and Littlefinger shoved Sansa back as he whipped around._

_“What is it?” he snarled to the man. “Can you not see I am busy?”_

_The guard shook his head feverishly and pointed down the hall. “My lord—they are here, the Lannisters. We have to go now, out the back—”_

_The man left, and Littlefinger turned back towards her. Sansa whimpered and scrambled backwards, but Littlefinger was too quick. He grabbed her and ran a hand, slow and painful, over her exposed breasts and up to her lips. Then he leaned close, kissing and biting at her lips. A hand travelled lower, and Sansa cried out in fear._

_“It is a shame,” he whispered, breath hot and sickly sweet, “that I will have to wait another night to taste this.” He cupped a rough hand to her womanhood, kissed her mouth once more, then drew back into the night._

_Thunder cracked, louder than she’d ever heard before, and the room burned a blinding white. Sansa shut her eyes, and as tears fell against her cheeks to mix, pale and pink, with her bloodied lips, she did the only thing she knew how. She sang a song, silent, to the night._

The sky answered with a scream, and Sansa thrashed out, kicking the sheets and slapping at the two hands grabbing her wrists— _he’s back, he’s back, he’s back—_

            “Sansa!” 

            A face swam into view, illuminated by the storm outside. It wasn’t the cold, grey eyes of her nightmare, but dark, kind ones. They swept over her now, brimming with concern.

            “Prince Oberyn?” Sansa relaxed at the realization, and the hands at her wrists lifted. They now took her by the elbows, pulling her into a sitting position.

            “You were having a nightmare, Sansa,” he said softly. He reached for her cheek, in comfort, she was sure, but still Sansa flinched and pulled away.

            “It was nothing, my—”

            “ _Oberyn_.”

            Sansa bit her lip. “It was nothing, Oberyn,” she repeated. “Just the storm…it is silly of me to be afraid.”

            His face still etched with concern, Oberyn reached out a hand, as if to touch her cheek again, but his fingers stopped by her temple. He smoothed out the hair, brushing it back against her head like a father does to a small child. It was a simple, innocent thing, but Sansa immediately felt calmer. She leaned into his touch and closed her eyes for just a second. _How long since a man has touched me like this_?

            When her eyes opened, Sansa took in Oberyn’s peaceful, steady gaze. His hand stilled, and he smiled sadly. “You are a brave little wolf, Sansa…it was not the storm that frightened you.” Sansa parted her lips, unsure how to respond, when Oberyn continued on. “But you need not tell me now. Not if you do not wish to.”

            Sansa nodded, and his hand at her temple lifted. Sansa watched his hands, lightly folded in his lap. They were deeply tanned from the strong Dornish sun and deeply calloused from years of fighting. Her husband had a warrior’s hands, and yet he touched her so softly. Something deep within her swelled—something without a name—and Sansa placed her hands over his.

            “You said as long as I want, we shall have separate beds,” she said softly. His hands flipped over so that their fingers intertwined.

            “I do not go back on my promises, my lady.”

            Sansa met his eyes. “But perhaps you could remain tonight?” she asked hesitantly. Oberyn’s fingers stilled, and Sansa thought for a moment that she had angered him. He withdrew his hands, and a blush crept up her neck.

            Oberyn studied her with his dark eyes. Then he nodded, and the corners of his lips lifted in reassurance. He moved beside her, gently positioning her so that she lay against his chest. His strong arms drew her towards him, and his chin rested softly against the top her head. Sansa closed her eyes, breathing in his warm, slightly spiced scent. His closeness took her in, reminded her of being a child in her father’s arms, helpless yet forever protected against the world. For so long others touched her for pain or fear or lust…and now it was for comfort. As a little girl, Sansa never dreamed of seeking comfort in such a man. But here she was, a young girl in the Viper’s arms with a desperate need to feel safe again. _Perhaps I am mad, to trust this man...but what else do I have?_

            A quiet clap of thunder sounded, and Sansa shuddered, just slightly, as she closed her eyes. Oberyn shifted her closer and placed a kiss upon her crown. “Sweet girl,” he murmured, voice low and muffled. “They will never hurt you again…”


	6. Chapter Six

Jaime lifted his hand, carefully pointing the gilded dagger at the far rail, maybe fifteen feet from where he sat. He focused on the razor-sharp tip and screwed up his eyes in concentration. The gold-plated handle felt a bit awkward in his hand, but he was getting better each day. It had been his father’s blade, a gift for his twelfth nameday. If Lord Tywin was here and Jaime still that skinny, cocky little squire, he’d probably get a sharp yank on the ear for throwing around such an expensive gift.

            _There_ , thought Jaime smugly, imagining the dagger moving arrow-like through the air to reach its target. In his mind’s eye, the wooden rail morphed into his father’s stern, uncaring face. _I’m just as good with the left hand. Better, in fact—_

“Bored already, Kingslayer?”

            The dagger flew from his hand too far to the left, falling three feet short of the intended spot. It quivered mockingly from the floorboard, and Jaime frowned. _Or maybe you’re just as bad as the rest of them._

“I’m afraid there isn’t much to do on this damn ship,” said Jaime, groaning as he stood. He met Oberyn’s dark, laughing eyes and his scowl deepened. “Some of us actually need entertainment to keep our wits.”

            “I do not disagree,” said Oberyn, rubbing his stubbled jaw. Then he grinned. “Lucky for me, I am well entertained.”

            Jaime followed his gaze. Sansa sat alone on the other end of the deck, facing outwards towards the sea with her sewing spread out on the frosted-glass table. Her hair was completely loose today, and it rippled in the high-noon sun down her back like the waterfalls that littered the woods outside Lannisport. Some of the pieces flew sideways in the breeze, trailing like crimson banners through the air.

            “And what _do_ you have to discuss?” Jaime asked quizzically, turning back to the Viper. From the four days at sea so far and the little time before he left for Riverrun, Jaime assumed Sansa only held interests of the girlish sort—stitching, songs, and fairy tales. Not the sort of conversation pieces that would “entertain” a man like the Dornish prince. “You’re more than twice her age with a taste for bloodshed and whores. What do you have in common?”

            Oberyn smiled, amused. “You would be surprised, Ser Jaime. One does not have to be so similar to another to find pleasure in her company. Not that you would know…with that ridiculous Kingsguard vow and all.” Before Jaime could reply, Oberyn clapped him on the shoulder and started off towards Sansa.

            _The nerve of that man to openly speak of my relationship with_ —

            “Oh, and Ser Jaime,” Oberyn called over his shoulder, gesturing lazily to his left. “I’d better hurry, if you don’t want that pretty blade of yours at the bottom of the Narrow Sea.”

            After a moment of confusion, Jaime looked to see his dagger, supposedly still stuck into the deck. He groaned. “ _Seven fucking hells_ …” The dagger was sliding further and further away from the ship’s swaying, almost to the slatted rail and an unfortunate drop into the water below. As he ran for it, feeling rather foolish, Jaime swore he heard Oberyn’s laughter from behind.

            Jaime dove for his father’s gift just in time, landing hard on his elbow. He wore no armor while aboard the ship, so only a thin bit of leather padded his fall. His fingertips scrabbled clumsily for the handle before securing it in his fist. Cursing, Jaime pulled himself up and stared out at the sea with utter dislike.

            _Are you happy now, father? I saved your golden trinket from the sea’s belly_. _Not that it’ll do your precious knight much good anymore._ Jaime spat over the rail, cursing this dammed mission he got sent on. In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to return home.

He could almost imagine the Red Keep, impossible as it as, far out on the horizon—her turrets rising high into the mist, red sand-stone burning under a summer’s sun, a bronze stag and golden lion rippling, high and proud, in the wind. It was right there, if only he squinted harder… _she_ was right there, staring out from her chamber window, beautiful in a crimson gown, the great lioness of the Seven Kingdoms with eyes only for her far-away brother in the distance. An aching pain flooded through his veins, one that had nothing to do with the wound on his arm. Perhaps he should have been kinder to her that day, taken her to his bed and kissed that lovely, golden—

            The tower in the hazy distance grew sharper, its lines becoming a tall, wooden mast. “Prince Oberyn,” he called out, tearing his eyes away for a second. From the golden daydream rose a dark ship sailing rapidly towards them from the north, pushing all thoughts of Cersei from his mind.

            “Prince Oberyn!” Jaime repeated, louder this time. The prince and his wife both turned in their south-facing seats.

            “Going to jump in after that dagger?” Oberyn called back with a smirk. Sansa smiled politely at her husband’s jest, but by the slight pull of her brows, Jaime could tell she knew something was not right.

            “You’ll want to see this,” he said grimly. Oberyn came over grudgingly, standing to Jaime’s right. Sansa trailed behind, the pale pink silk from her sewing remaining in her hands.

            “A ship,” said Jaime. “And a quick one at that. With only this merchant’s barge, they’ll be on us in ten minutes.”

            “But what of their banner?”

            Jaime looked across in surprise to Sansa, who stood clutching her silks in one hand, and the rail with the other. Jaime peered back at the ship with a frown. “It appears they do not fly one.”

            “Oh, what does it matter?” said Oberyn with a shrug and a hint of impatience. “Could be anyone—northerners, traders, thieves. It is of no importance to us. I do not fear a little ship in the distance.”

            Jaime fought the urge to roll his eyes. “Maybe in Dorne you are not wary of unmarked ships,” he said through his teeth, “but you carry a Stark now.” Jaime caught Sansa’s eye, and she blushed. “We should get her below—that red hair’s too recognizable if things get ugly.”

            “A _Stark?_ ” said Oberyn, laughing. “I carry the princess of Dorne, wife of the fabled Viper himself! Let any man who dares see who the last daughter of Eddard Stark has wed!”

            Jaime released an exasperated sigh. “Oberyn…”

            The prince’s smile turned hard, and he met Jaime’s eyes with a glare. “Lady Sansa?” he said, not turning. “What do you think of the Kingslayer’s suggestion?”

            Sansa looked nervously between them, wringing the silk in her hands. “I—I am not sure.”

            Taking that as an agreement, Oberyn smirked and ran a hand over Sansa’s hair. “Do you see, Ser Jaime?” he said lightly. He swept the curls over her shoulder, playing with the ends. Then he put a hand to her cheek, smiling down at her. “Lady Sansa knows that no one will hurt her anymore.”

            This time, Jaime rolled his eyes. “As you wish,” he muttered. The girl didn’t look at all at ease—not that the prince seemed to actually _care_ what his wife thought on the matter.

            For the next several minutes, the rest of the crew gathered behind them to watch in tense silence. Oberyn continued to give his wife reassuring touches, much to Jaime’s dislike. From the way she stood, back rigid and hands clenched tightly to the silk, he knew she was nervous. You couldn’t just forget trauma—Jaime knew that. It lingered day and night in the corners of your mind…and Sansa Stark had experienced so much at his own family’s hands.

            “Perhaps they won’t take notice of us,” said Sansa softly. The ship had been gaining on them steadily, and it was now close enough that Jaime could make out a bit more—it was an ugly, old thing, with weathered white sails and a clearly patched and re-patched hull. He could just barely make out the people onboard now; they moved closer and closer until—

            A great roar went up, and a sea of silver swords rose into the air.

            No one on _The Laughing Lioness_ spoke, staring in disbelief at the loud, jeering cry. Although still a bit hazy, Jaime could now see a large, flesh-colored figure flailing about before the rest. Naked as his nameday, the man released a bawdy, drunken laugh, pointed to Sansa, and then proceeded to act out a certain…act. The rest of the men cheered at his lewd performance, and Jaime swallowed back the bile rising in his throat, but still his blood quickened at the sight. He may not be the same great fighter, but his heart still sensed a good fight when he saw one.

            Sansa’s mouth fell open in disgust. “Is he…”

            Oberyn took her by the shoulder, pressing her against his chest so she could not see. “Do not watch, my lady,” he murmured against her hair. “How many do you count, Ser Jaime?” he asked quietly, so Sansa could not hear.

            “Fifteen, maybe twenty.”

            “Good.”

            “ _Good_?” Jamie hissed. “You have only four other men with swords!”

            Oberyn seemed to weigh this for a moment, then he looked down at the girl in his arms and grinned. “Then it will be a fair fight.” He put her at arms length—another lewd jest sounded from the ship, followed by the unmistakable sound of skin slapping against skin—and said, “Go below with Ser Jaime, Sansa…I will come for you when these foolish bastards are dead.” He flashed another grin, then pushed her gently towards Jaime.

            Jaime began to take Sansa by the arm, but an incessant itching in his phantom hand held him back. “Surely someone else can protect her—” he began to say. Oberyn cut him off with a smirk as he withdrew the blade at his hip with a flourish.

            “I do not need a one-handed man fighting by my side. Take my wife below, and perhaps you can protect her there. I’m sure your…skills are more suited to fighting off vermin, anyway, Ser Jaime.”

            Jaime bit his cheek and reluctantly took Sansa’s hand, hurrying her towards the stairs. Just as he pulled open the door to usher her inside, the ship gave a great groan and shudder as wood slammed against wood. Sansa gasped, beginning to fall before Jaime unceremoniously shoved her inside and slammed the door behind them.

 

* * *

 

 

            Sansa sat in silence on the bed, staring around the dimly lit room as Jaime walked around, lighting the few candles. This cabin lacked the narrow window hers had—had Oberyn chosen the better one for her? She would have to ask, if…if he came back.

            With the last candle lit, Jaime stood rigidly by the door, as if unsure what to do with himself. He was clearly avoiding her eyes, and his defined jaw was clenched tight.

              _Does he truly dislike me that much_? Sansa wondered as her eyes roamed freely over the Lannister knight. _Always scowling at my husband when he thinks I cannot see…keeping his distance, even when the entire crew gathers for meals_. And even with all the excitement of the ship and her marriage, she hadn’t forgotten the night the queen called Sansa to her chamber. Jaime dragged her from her room, ignoring the clear bruises on her skin without a hint of pity and forced her to stand before the queen and Oberyn like some livestock at an auction. This golden-haired knight—the _Kingslayer—_ was just the same as the rest—cold, cruel, and uncaring. He still scared her, despite the “alliance” he now held with the Martells. Sansa drew her knees to her chest and rested her chin upon them, thinking with chilling horror what would happen if Oberyn lost…Oberyn, a man she hardly knew yet somehow trusted and even cared for, in a way…

            “Are you cold?”

            Sansa’s head snapped up, and she found the Kingslayer staring intently down at her. “I am not, my lord…” she said hesitantly.

            “It is just…” he waved a hand at her curled up form, and Sansa immediately felt her cheeks redden. “If you are cold, feel free to move under the blanket.” He smirked, just slightly, but it came off as more awkward than cocky. “You are a northerner sailing to Dorne on a Lannister ship, hiding from unnamed pirates…I promise, propriety isn’t exactly standing at the moment.”

            Sansa held back a smile, hiding it behind her knees. _He does have a point, I suppose…_ “I am not cold,” she repeated quietly.

            Jaime crossed his arms, leaning back against the door. “Then why do you hold yourself so?”

            Sansa uncurled her legs, suddenly self-conscious. “I—”

            A crash sounded from above, followed by a scream. Sansa grabbed her legs again in fear, hugging herself as she shut her eyes. _No, no, please not again…_ there was another deafening crash, followed by a blood-curdling scream.

 She was rocking, rocking backwards and forwards and the screams and shouts just kept coming—the yelp of her sweet Lady, the hiss Ser Ilyn’s sword followed by her father’s silent, stolen one—her mother and brother’s, far away in the howling wind—Joffrey’s cry as he choked and his face grew purple—Ser Dantos’ as he fell and the boat slapped grotesquely at his broken bones. Again and again—Lady’s, her father’s, her mother’s and brother’s, Joffrey’s and Dantos’, her own and her husband’s—

Two hands seized her shoulders—one warm, one cold—and shook them fiercely. Sansa pushed them away, but the two hands held her fast, shoving her towards something warm and hard.

            “Sansa!”

            The sharp voice cut through the screams in her head, and Sansa’s arms grew still. She opened her eyes—were those tears sticking to her lashes, masking the world in a hazy, stinging mess?—only to have her vision blanketed in semi-darkness. The musty scent of leather filled her nostrils, and Sansa took a shaky breath.

            Jaime was holding her to his chest, arms wrapped tight just to the point of discomfort. “It—it is not proper..” she began to say, voice shaky. She felt like a child again, clutched to a man’s chest as her heart hammered away and the past filled her ears with screams. Sansa tried again to push away, but soon her protests turned to sobs, and she felt herself shudder in his arms.

            “Shhh,” Jaime murmured against her hair. “It doesn’t matter.” There was another crash, another shout, and he whispered soothing words in response. For a few minutes, Sansa let herself relax in the knight’s arms—arms that were supposed to hurt her, frighten her. Sansa was afraid and confused, but even as her mind whirled, her body refused to move away. She was comforted, and for once it wasn't in falsehood or trickery…or even a forced marriage. Jaime simply held her because she needed to be held.

            “Tell me about Winterfell,” he said quietly in response to a man’s muffled scream, followed by what sounded like the splash of seawater.

            Sansa blinked her unfocused eyes, trying to picture it in the dark leather of Jaime’s shirt. “It—it is a frozen, lonely place,” she began softly, fingers tracing on the leather. With her forefinger, she drew the high towers, the strong walls. Jaime’s arms stiffened, just slightly, beneath her light touch.

            “Go on.”

            “…But—but it is also very beautiful. In a summer’s frost, the snow drifts up upon the lower walls and trees, coating them in clear ice. Like glass.” She dew a tree in the leather, lightly brushing on the frost. “When I was a girl, my brothers and sister dragged me outside to play one night, even though I ought to have been sewing or learning.” Five stick-figures rose up below the walls, and Sansa’s heart constricted. She added a sixth, picturing the scene as it was, happy and blissful in the powdery snow. “Jon dared me to lick an iced-over tree,” she whispered with a smile. “What they didn’t say was that a steel plate had been nailed to the bark, invisible beneath the ice in the darkness. Robb had to run back to fetch the maester before father could find out.”

            Jaime laughed, and Sansa felt his chest rumble against her ear. It was a pleasant, warm sound. “Sounds like something I did to my sister,” he chuckled softly.

            Sansa smiled at the memory. At the time she had raged and stormed into her parents’ chambers after unsticking her tongue, but now, just a few years later, it was one of the only happy memories she had left. “And what did you do to your—”

            The cabin door banged open, and Sansa’s heart skipped in fear. Before she could turn, Jaime’s arms dropped, almost reflexively, and he abruptly stood.

            Sansa turned, and she released a gasp. “Oberyn!”

            He grinned, but something else flickered beneath his dark eyes. Had he seen Jaime’s arms around her? Sansa bit her lip, and her cheeks grew hot. Nothing had happened, but still Sansa felt her stomach stir with worry.

            _He will not care,_ she hastily told herself. _Perhaps he did not notice…besides, he does not even care for you in that way._ Her stomach flipped. Apparently it did not agree.

            Sansa’s eyes scanned her husband, and she now took in the smears of blood on his face and chest. She rushed over. “Are you hurt? What happened—”

            He shook his head, embracing her despite the wet, crimson stains. “It is not mine,” he reassured. “Just a man that liked to talk before I slit his throat,” he said, almost proudly, with a smirk. “They were Greyjoy men who had abandoned their host at Moat Cailin. From what I gathered, they stole a ship off of White Harbor…and lucky for us, they chose the wrong ship to attack.”

            Sansa tried to smile at Oberyn’s words, but still something nagged at her mind. “And they just…happened to come across this ship?”

            Oberyn ran a thumb over her cheek. “They saw a pretty girl on a merchant’s ship—that is all…now run along, my lady. You must want to rest.”

            Sansa nodded gratefully, and began to leave when she remembered Jaime, ignored behind them. “Ser Jaime,” she said, turning. The knight regarded her with a mix of surprise, amusement, and…was that coldness? “I thank you, for protecting me down here,” she said quietly.

            _And it is the truth, although I still fear him._ She quickly bowed her head in thanks, then met her husband’s eyes before stepping through the doorway. Blood rushed to her cheeks as she sped away.

           

* * *

 

 

            Jaime cleared his throat, eyes shifting from the Sansa’s retreating form to Oberyn. The Viper gave him a hard, searching look.

            “I suppose it was good, that you did not join in the fight…it appears you were needed down here,” said Oberyn softly. There was a hint of anger in his tone, and Jaime clenched his jaw in response.

            “I suppose so,” he answered in the same tone, straightening his back. He wouldn’t pretend he hadn’t been holding—comforting—the girl. _And that is_ all _you were doing,_ Jaime added silently when the memory of Sansa’s soft, shaking form in his arms drifted forwards. _That is all._

            Oberyn took a few steps closer. The slick blood on his face dripped onto his orange robes, spotting them with crimson. “And why do you suddenly have my wife’s best interests at heart? I have not yet forgotten the events at King’s Landing, Ser Jaime.”

            Jaime’s lips parted, dry and cracked. He swallowed, not breaking his gaze. “I made a vow,” he said finally. The words fell easily and true. “It is time I kept it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd just like to say something before someone asks: If you couldn't tell by now, this is, for the most part, a slow-burn fic in which Sansa had a lot of control (hopefully that's why some of you lovely readers enjoy it, but let me know!). That means, to me, that we won't be seeing much smut until Sansa is (or thinks she is) ready. *steps off soapbox*
> 
> Thanks for reading, and let me know if you're liking it so far! And when we DO see some smut action, who will it be with???? I'd love to hear your thoughts.


	7. Chapter Seven

“Is that really it?” he heard Sansa ask, smiling at the pure excitement in her voice. “Is that really Dorne?”

            Oberyn watched her from his seat, thinking that the girl jumping up and down before him, tinged with gold and wild of hair, looked nothing like his once-quivering, purple-lipped bride. Two months at sea had not been easy—the gods had not been kind with their storms this season—but they had done wonders on this cold, northern rose he now called _wife_.

            Sansa was a curious girl, Oberyn had come to realize. Pale and beautiful and soft—traits not often seen in his own kind—but also strong, despite the years of torture under the lions’ paws. She had only come to him once, while the rain gods beat down with rage from a starless black sky and the waves boiled with their cries. She had curled to his chest, frightened and shaking, and Oberyn had protected her gladly. But while her breast rose softly, he could not help but worry over this future princess of Dorne. What woman—girl, really—could his passionate, fiery people follow if one taste of lightening sent her running for her husband’s arms? What man would bend his knee to this snow-white queen, so different from himself, if she trembled at the sight of steel?

            _I was wrong, though_ , Oberyn mused, watching Sansa run to the other end of the ship. _She is not so fragile as I once believed, and my people will crown her in silver when they see her._ It was the days after that first night that made him realize this. For the great storms continued; the gods threw sky-cracking light towards the sea, and Sansa Stark did not once ask for his bed again. Most men would have angered—what wife does not seek comfort in her husband?—but Oberyn thought differently. He took his lady’s withdraw as a sign of strength. She did not need a man to hold her at night, to rock her like a child against his chest. She knew that he was there, just at the end of the hall, and that was enough. The terror of the storm remained, but she endured, and she did not need to call on him again. She was now a princess of Dorne, and he could already see her, standing on the balcony of the Old Palace in a blaze of fiery hair and snow-white skin—terrible, lovely, and strong. A true queen of the North and a princess of Dorne. Sansa Martell would rise from her father’s ashes, her mother’s and brother’s, her home’s, and she would stand by his side while their enemies drowned in a light that could only be hers…could only be _theirs._  

            _Perhaps it is but a fantasy,_ he thought, tilting his head. Sansa turned to beam at him, hair whipping around in the wind  like wildfire just as in his dream. _But that is what I want for her…what will make her truly happy. This I know for sure._  

            Oberyn rose and went to stand by her side. He rested a hand on her shoulder and ducked down to press his lips against her cheek. The harbor’s frenzy was in sight now, bronze and alive under a cloudless blue sky, and her eyes refused to tear away even as his hand took hers, his lips against her ear.

            “That is _home_.”

 

* * *

 

 

            “Is that really it?” he heard Sansa ask, her voice breathless with wonder. “Is that really Dorne?”

            Jaime could not help but smile—even now, even after all that had happened, Sansa Stark remained a child at heart. She may have a woman’s body and the gruesome scars to prove it, but she had not yet lost the scent of summer in her flaming hair. _That,_ Jaime mused as he watched her nearly leap from the rail into the sapphire blue water, _I am sure of._

            A smile still curving his lips, Jaime closed his eyes, letting his face bask in the warm sun. It would be days, maybe weeks before things settled down again. They were about to arrive in Dorne, a place he had never imagined visiting. _I shall have a few minutes of peace_ , he thought pleasantly. _A few minutes before all hell breaks loose._ And of course, his mind wandered to her, this child turned princess he had grown to know…the memory swam forward, and he let himself remember.

            _Jaime paused, frowning. Then he heard it again, a soft weep from behind, muffled by the storm raging on above and the thin wooden door. He turned back to Sansa’s door, and a sob drifted through. Just a week had gone by since that foolish Greyjoy attack…since he held the girl in his arms while her heart steadied, her lungs filled with much-needed air. It wasn’t proper of him, and he shouldn’t even_ be _here right now… but perhaps she was panicking again, perhaps she was frightened, perhaps…Jaime knocked on the door._

_“Princess Sansa?” he said, loud enough to reach her ears, quiet enough so the slumbering crew would not wake. “Should I…should I get Prince Oberyn?”_

_Her sobs grew softer—he could tell she was trying to hide them, probably embarrassed at her sorrow. “Ser Jaime?” she said hesitantly. He could almost imagine the way she said it—knees drawn to her chest, locks of hair hiding her pale, wet face. “No…please don’t bring my husband. I am just being silly…a silly little girl.” She sobbed again, as if even her armor of courtesy refused to believe it. “You mustn’t come in.”_

_Jaime sighed, leaning his forehead to the door. “You should not be alone, my princess. Not on a night like this.” He bit his lip, thinking. Finally he said, “I believe you never finished your story of Winterfell.”_

_She grew quiet, hiccups and sniffles fading to a pressing silence. Bedsprings groaned, and then they too grew still. Just as Jaime thought she’d resigned herself to hiding her tears until he left, a floorboard creaked, then another. He couldn’t explain it, but somehow he felt her there, her warm body across from his, with just a piece of wood to separate them. Perhaps she even pressed her forehead against the door, placed a palm against the smooth wood to meet his own. Together, yet helplessly apart._

_As she spoke, the fear steadily ebbed from her soft voice, replaced with strength from her snow-blanketed memories of a far-away home. Jaime answered her tales with his own—of Casterly Rock and the Sunset Sea, of his brother and mother. He hesitated to mention his twin; Cersei was the reason the girl bore these scars now. Eventually, with a smile on his lips, Jaime slid down, seating himself with his back against the door. He listened and spoke and laughed until only a faint roar of thunder could be heard, and the sweet voice behind him grew heavy with sleep._

_Jaime closed his eyes, his head leaning back against the wood. Her breathing was steady now, and it comforted him to know she had found some peace. “Goodnight, my princess,” he whispered, imagining her auburn curls sprawled against the door, her mouth open just slightly as she slept. “Goodnight, Sansa…”_

And so it was, for every other night the gods cursed them with a storm. She never mentioned it the morning after, never even sought him out…but it was enough. It was enough to know that he helped her in a way her strong-willed, passionate husband could not.

            Jaime opened his eyes, wistfully thinking that he would see her staring back at him, laughing in the golden sun. She would take his hand and pull him towards the rail, chattering away as the strange land loomed just in reach…

            He squinted, shielding his eyes. When they adjusted, Jaime’s pleasant smile dropped. They were both facing away from him, and Sansa’s curtain of hair shielded their faces. Oberyn leaned in, probably taking his wife’s lips with his own. Jaime watched his arm snake around her waist as he pointed to the approaching harbor. She laughed, voice breathless and tinkering like silver bells.

            His stomach dropped like a stone. _Fool,_ thought Jaime bitterly. He stood, groaning, and headed back below deck to take a nap. Dorne would still be there in an hour. _What did you expect?_

           

* * *

 

 

            “May I look now?”

            Oberyn laughed and laced his fingers through her own. They sat side by side in a litter, and the silk drapes cascading down the windows cast the small space in a warm, orange light. “Do you _want_ to ruin the surprise, my princess?”

            Sansa bit her lip and giggled. She was doing that more and more these days, Oberyn had noticed. The sun had once again found her frozen face. “I have never been outside the north!” she cried out in protest, pulling playfully at his hand.

            “You have been to King’s Landing.”

            Her smile fell, and Oberyn immediately regretted his words. She was so lovely, so happy with him, that he often forgot she was so young and had suffered so much. _And they will pay for that dearly…they will face your wrath, my princess, once you are golden and strong again._

“Dorne is nothing like King’s Landing,” she said quietly, dropping his hand.

            Oberyn picked it back up and brushed his lips to her knuckles. He flicked back the corner of his curtain, peering outside. He hadn’t wanted to ride to Dorne in this ridiculous box, but his brother had insisted when he learned of Oberyn’s plans to take the girl here. He rapped against the side of the litter, and they were set steadily on the ground. Oberyn unlatched the door, letting it swing wide as sunlight streamed in, blinding them momentarily. “You are right, of course…take a look.”

            Sansa  gingerly stepped out, her eyes immediately growing wide as they both drank in the fresh air. “I…I do not know what to say,” she breathed out, spinning around in wonder.

            “Say it is beautiful,” he suggested, grinning down at her.

            Oberyn too felt a need to drink in the land around them—the Water Gardens were still several miles from his true home, but it had been where he grew up, where he had spent his days laughing and playing without a care. They stood just outside the walls now, on a hill overlooking the gardens. Pale pink marble shimmered, rising high to form towers or blanketing the sand to form pavilions, pools, and walkways. A group of children, naked and golden in the Dornish sun, splashed about in the sparkling water, skipping in some game about one of the many tall geysers.

            “Then I would be only half right,” Sansa muttered. She approached one of the nearby fruit trees, running her hand along the smooth bark. “Beautiful does not cover it.”

            Oberyn wrapped his arms around her from behind, gently placing a small, silver dagger in her hand. She craned around to look at him in surprise.

            “ _Blood oranges_ ,” he said, gesturing up. On the low branches hung dark, sunset-colored fruit, nestled between the emerald, almond-shaped leaves. “They grow all over Dorne, but the trees outside the gardens carry the best. When I was a boy, my sister and I would eat them beneath the sun until the sweet juice ran down our chin and the fruit melted in our palms.”

            Oberyn watched, strangely full of pride, as Sansa cut down one of the oranges in one swift movement. “Are we to live here?” she asked, tossing him the fruit.

            He caught it one-handed and began to peel the thick, almost nauseating-smelling skin. “The Water Gardens are simply where the children come to play,” he clarified. “Once grown, the princes and princesses of Dorne move back to the Old Palace, where my brother keeps his seat.”

            Sansa took the piece he offered, chewing thoughtfully. A dribble of juice ran down her chin, and Oberyn moved closer to rub it off with his thumb. He licked the sweet juice, and she blushed prettily. “And your daughters…did they too play here?”

            He nodded—this was the first time she had asked about his children. “In Dorne, we do not care if you are a bastard or a lord, a whore’s son or a butcher’s daughter.”

            She paused, eyes downcast at her feet. “Do you think…” she began quietly. Oberyn lifted her chin with a finger, meeting her eyes softly.

            “What is it, my dear?”

            “Do you think I could come here, just once? I know I am a woman flowered, and a wife…but I never got to be…I never got to be a _child._ Not since leaving home.”

            Oberyn pressed a kiss against her forehead, pulling her to his chest to hide the frown he bore. Something stirred inside him, something that wanted to say no. The princess he imagined did not play among the other children, laughing and free without a thought to what was done to her… maybe he was being too hard. Moving too fast, wanting too much. Oberyn scolded himself for thinking it, and he pushed the thoughts back down. “Of course, Sansa,” he said softly. The breeze picked up, and wisps of her hair danced against his arms like feathers. “I will take you here again soon. Now let us return to that little box…I fear the Old Palace may leave you completely speechless.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is shorter than usual, but I absolutely loved writing this chapter, and I think you really see the differences between the two relationships. I'm wondering if more of you are liking one more than the other now...


	8. Chapter Eight

“Are you ready?”

            Sansa squeezed his hand, trying to forget about the nerves and fear coursing through her veins. The doors to the throne room stood before them, tall and proud, and they seemed to mock her in their unimaginable enormity.

            “Not really,” she breathed out.

            The doors swung open, and Sansa realized her husband was right. She _was_ speechless at the scene before her.

            Snow-white marble coated the floor, so reflective that as they walked, another girl stared back at her in awe. From the water-like stone rose the gilded walls, where intricately carved gold framed flaming dragons, wild-haired maiden warriors, and breathtaking battles in the rippling stained glass of every color. Oberyn pointed a finger to the ceiling, and as she tilted her head up, a gasp escaped. A golden dome capped the throne room, with strange, unreadable characters of the ancient Rhoyne stamped into the blinding metal. The inscriptions spiraled so high towards a star-shaped skylight that they seemed to disappear into the sun itself. The cold elegance of Winterfell and the rich beauty of the Red Keep only dimmed in comparison to the Old Palace, and with fear and awe and utter bewilderment, Sansa realized that _this_ would be her home. _How can I belong here…when I am just me. When I am just Sansa?_

            “Brother,” came a low voice from the other end. Sansa tore her eyes away from the surrounding beauty and allowed Oberyn to pull her forwards towards the raised dais.

            They approached, and Sansa now found herself across from who she assumed to be Prince Doran. Beside him sat an empty but identical throne, and just below on the marble steps stood Myrcella, willowy and yellow-haired in a flowing gown, and her betrothed, a dark-haired youth that bore a starling resemblance to Oberyn.

            “Doran,” Oberyn called back. “I did not expect to find you here.” There was confusion in his voice, and maybe even a hint of anger.

            _Did not expect_? Sansa assumed the ruling price would be here to greet them—she was, after all, the new princess of Dorne and his sister-in-law. They stepped closer, and with a sinking feeling, she realized why her husband was so surprised.

            The prince’s legs, on closer inspection, appeared grotesquely swollen, with purple veins poking out, thick and bulbous, beneath his peeling skin. His hands, which rested so lightly on the armrests, where bent and twisted at the joints, their condition even worse than the prince’s legs. Sansa swallowed thickly at the sight, willing her disgust to remain hidden. _I have never seen such a thing_ , Sansa realized, trying not to stare. She willed herself to focus on the Dornishman’s warm, honey-colored eyes instead. _What a fool my husband must think of me, if I cannot even bear to look upon his brother._

“Did you expect me to miss out on my venomous little brother bringing home a wife at last? I thought I’d never live to see the day.”

            Prince Doran grinned, and Oberyn matched his smile as he stepped forward to kiss his brother’s hand. “As did I,” said Oberyn warmly.

            “Come here, child,” said the prince, gesturing slightly with one hand. “Let me see the great northern beauty I now call sister.”

            After an encouraging nod from Oberyn, Sansa hesitantly stepped forward. Prince Doran’s eyes did not leave her face as he slowly took her hand. His lips brushed her knuckles, dry and warm. “It is a pleasure to meet you, my prince,” said Sansa softly. “Your kingdom is so beautiful…I now know why few Dornishmen ever leave.” She again took her place by her husband’s side. From the way he smiled at her, warm and true, Sansa knew already that she liked this man. Perhaps she would even find comfort in having a brother once more.

            “And have you met my son?”

            Sansa turned her attention to the two golden youths—Myrcella of hair, and Trystane of skin. “It is an honor, Prince Trystane…and Princess Myrcella, it is lovely to see you once again.” Her eyes wandered to the girl, and Sansa bit back a frown. Myrcella’s eyes appeared puffy, swollen, and her lip trembled slightly. She kept her hands clasped in front of her waist, so tightly her knuckles shone white. _She is just upset to be leaving,_ Sansa concluded, giving the younger girl a small smile. _If the stories of their star-crossed love is true…and perhaps she is angry with me, since it is I who is taking her place as the Crown’s alliance to Dorne._

            After a bit more courteous small talk, which Sansa actually enjoyed for once, Oberyn put a hand on her back and said, “My dear, why don’t you and Princess Myrcella go catch up? I am sure she has a good idea of the gardens by now.”

            From the way he spoke, overly pleasant and frighteningly polite, Sansa could tell that he wanted to be alone with his brother. “Of course,” she responded. “That would be lovely.”

            Outside in the fresh air, Sansa breathed deeply, allowing the sweet air to fill her lungs. The sky above appeared painted, colors warm and running together till their edges blurred in the setting, amethyst sun.

            “Are you well?” Sansa asked, glancing over as they walked down the white-pebbled path.

            Myrcella simply bit her lip, ignoring the question as she led her by the arm. They were heading away from the palace, so deep into the gardens that the pretty, flowered bushes gave way to thick, waxy hedges that climbed high into the purple sky. “Trystane didn’t tell me you’d be arriving today,” she muttered, turning sharply to the left.

            Sansa frowned. “I am sorry…perhaps he didn’t know?” she offered up.

            Myrcella laughed, a high, bell-like sound. “No one tells me anything around here…I suppose _that’s_ something you’ll need to get used to.” There was a layer of bitterness to her voice, and Sansa realized with a start that the sweet child that had left King’s Landing was much different now.

            They wheeled around another corner, and Sansa stopped abruptly in her tracks. “Myrcella, I don’t know if you’re upset with me or Trystane or—”

            The girl suddenly darted forward, clapping a hand to Sansa’s mouth. Sansa’s eyes grew wide in protest, but Myrcella shook her head _no._ “I am not, Sansa,” she whispered. She glanced away, and when she looked back, her eyes glistened in the dim light. “Just…just wait and I will tell you.” She dropped her hand and scanned the path. Finally, she took Sansa’s hand and led her to the right, turning into a shaded grove. A fountain stood in the center, bronze and aged, and greenish water trickled softly from a woman’s open palms.

            Myrcella dropped her hand, and Sansa licked her lips, annoyed at the younger girl’s strange behavior. “What is it that no one else may hear?” Sansa questioned, her brows raised.

            Myrcella sat down on the fountain’s lip and buried her head in her hands so that her golden ringlets fell forwards, shielding her face. “Oh Sansa…” she whispered, voice hoarse. “I—I did not know who to tell, but when I heard you were to take my place…” Her voice trailed off, and she met Sansa’s eyes. Tears now glistened on her round face, and her lips parted helplessly like a frightened child’s. “You must promise not to tell.”

            Sansa knelt down before the girl, taking her small hands in her own. “Of course, Myrcella,” she said softly. Her stomach flopped as she remembered… _my mother will never hold me like this again…she will never listen to my fears and say everything is ok._ Sansa closed her eyes, steeling herself. She couldn’t worry about herself now. It was Myrcella that needed a mother. It was another young girl who needed help when the world beat them down over and over again. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

            Myrcella tilted her head up, golden locks sticking to her wet cheeks. She clasped Sansa’s hand so tightly they began to grow numb. “I…I didn’t pray much back home,” she whispered through her tears. “And now I come here every day because…because…” She turned, staring up at the statue behind her.

            Sansa’s eyes followed, and she tilted her head. Her mouth went dry, and she had to swallow twice before speaking. “You come here?” she whispered. She felt her palms grow slick as the realization came to her. It wasn’t just any statue, any woman whose water trickled softly into the murky pool below. It was the Mother. Sansa’s eyes drifted back to the girl, and she pried Myrcella’s hand away from her lap.

            Memories of her mother, red-haired and soft, kneeling before the carved woman swam before her eyes. Sansa remembered going with her once, when she was just a little girl and only two Stark children roamed Winterfell’s drafty halls. Sansa had placed her palm upon her mother’s belly, smiling under the sept’s dancing lights. “ _The Mother gives the gift of life_ ,” Lady Catelyn had told her. “ _It is she I pray to every day, to grow this child sure and strong.”_

Sansa copied her younger self, lightly placing a hand on Myrcella’s silk-covered belly with a strange mix of fear and wonder. “Oh, Myrcella…” she whispered hoarsely. “You cannot be…you cannot be preg—”

            “Sansa?”

            Her hand froze, and Sansa slowly turned at the voice.

 

* * *

 

 

            Jaime stared in bewilderment at the scene before him. He had been sent to fetch the two girls for supper and had finally come across them deep within the lush gardens. His eyes snapped to his daughter, weeping on the fountain’s edge. Then they snapped to Sansa, to the hand hovering over Myrcella’s belly as if…as if…

            _Seven fucking hells_.

            “Sansa?” he repeated, taking a few steps forward. Like a deer caught beneath a taught bow, Myrcella leapt to her feet and ran from the small grove, her hair whipping back along with her sobs in the gentle breeze. Sansa remained, half crouching, half rising, with wild fear painted on her face.

            “You know I am not going to hurt you,” he said quietly, raising both hands for her to see. He stepped closer. “I know what I saw, but if you would care to explain…”

            Sansa straightened, but did not speak. Her jaw remained glued shut, and her eyes remained wide as she stared back at him.

            When he had happened upon the two girls, a memory of his own mother came forward, and it was she who rested on the fountain, with his father knelt before her. His father had placed a hand so gently on his mother’s belly that Jaime had hardly recognize the man. Tywin Lannister was hard and stern…until the day he learned of a son within his wife.

            “Do you know what this means?” he said softly. “If my niece is with child outside of wedlock?” He didn’t completely know himself, but he was sure that Cersei would be enraged, that this already tentative alliance with Dorne would surely crumble…and that he would be a grandfather, a word so strange and bizarre—

            “I know that it is for my husband and brother to decide,” said Sansa, drawing him back in.

            Jaime couldn’t help but laugh at the ridiculousness of it all, and he raked a hand through his tousled hair. “That it is…” he agreed. “That it is.”

             He led Sansa back to the main palace, and they now stood before the two Dornishmen. His niece was nowhere to be found, and she probably could not muster a single sentence, so Jaime had Sansa explain the scene in the gardens.

            “And what of it?”

            Jaime’s mouth opened in surprise. “ _What of it_?” he repeated, aghast. He looked from the calm face of one prince to the other. “Do you not remember the Lannister’s wrath you speak so much of? Do you have any idea what my sister will do when she hears? Cersei will start a war claiming you raped her daughter!”

            Oberyn’s hard, dark eyes met his own. “I have not forgotten, _Kingslayer_ ,” he said, setting down his goblet. “Have you forgotten that our customs in Dorne are far more…relaxed? That a bastard born babe may be afforded the same life as a true-born heir?” He narrowed his eyes pointedly.

            “She will not hear, Ser Jaime,” said Doran, finally speaking up. “We already allowed your…niece into this family.” He leaned back in his wheeled chair, clasping his hands beneath his chin. “We will allow her babe as well, and we will allow her to marry Trystane…and I expect you to stay here, Ser Jaime, to act as your niece’s and her babe’s sworn shield. We cannot risk the Crown learning of this…incident. I am sure you will agree.” He turned without waiting for a response, smiling warmly at Sansa’s by Jaime’s side. “Go now, child. It has been a long day. A servant will show you to your chambers.”

            While Jaime stood dumfounded, Oberyn stood, quickly approached his wife, and kissed her cheek before settling back down. “You may go as well, Ser Jaime…but do not expect me to kiss you goodnight as well.”

            The prince’s jape seemed to pass over his head, and Jaime remained stuck on the spot, all that had just went down swirling in his head. _You will remain here…her sworn shield..._ Cersei came for him in his fog, her beautiful face contorted with rage at the news of her pregnant daughter.

            _I will not see her for more than a year then,_ Jaime realized with a start. _If I am to…if I am to protect my granddaughter. It is that or a war._ With a sinking feeling, Jaime knew what Cersei would choose. And for once in his life, he would not choose the same.

           

* * *

 

 

            Once Ser Jaime had stalked off, Oberyn let his eyes wander to the large, open windows—there was no need for glass panes in such a lovely place as Dorne. He smirked lightly at the bizarre conversation. Prince Doran had hinted of the Lannister girl’s close relationship with his nephew, and this news came at no surprise. _Though it did for her father_ , he thought, relaxing in his seat. _And his sweet, sweet sister…we will have to keep this from her, or I fear we may be in need of a new queen._

            Parts of the lush gardens could be seen, and Oberyn sat in the growing silence, drinking in the colored roses that grew high into the emerald hedges. They were plentiful this year, a sweet gift before what was said to be a crushing winter. _Red, orange…I must ask the gardeners to plant blue. Frosted roses for their new princess…_ He was lost in thought of winter and his winter bride.

            Doran studied him, bronze eyes dark in the fleeting light. “What troubles you, brother?” he said finally, folding his hands.

            Oberyn ran his finger about the rim of his goblet, incidentally not meeting his brother’s eyes. “What would you do, if you found your wife in another man’s arms?” The image from months ago still plagued his mind, though he took no action against the Kingslayer yet… _I suppose that may change now_ , he realized. _If the golden knight is to remain in Dorne with Myrcella._

            Doran frowned, taken back. “You’re hardly one to talk on the matter,” he said in amusement. “But what would _I_ do? My sweet wife is in the arms of another—a _bed_ of another, I should say—far away in the free city of Norvos as we speak.”

            Oberyn snorted at that and swallowed the wine he had been playing with. “I had almost forgotten,” he said bitterly. “But if you had some other wife, here?”

            “Do I love this wife?”

            He hesitated. “You do not…but you desire her…care for her. You want to make her happy.”

            Doran nodded. “And do I _know_ what she wants? Did I ask what makes her happy?”

            A blurry image swam forward, one of sweet lips and flaming hair—his princess, his queen standing before a bleeding sun. “You know what she needs,” he said finally, smiling.

            His brother unfolded his hands, meeting Oberyn’s eyes. They were hard, and Oberyn lost his smile under their fierce gaze. “There is a difference, dear brother, in knowing what is best for _you_ and what is best for _her…_ remember that, or you may wake one day a man at peace, only to open your eyes and find her gone.” He sat back in his wheeled seat, closing his eyes as he rubbed a hand along his swollen knee—the crown prince of Dorne, weak once more.

            Eyes blazing, Oberyn stood, ignoring his unfinished wine and his brother’s pain. Doran was but a feeble, soft-minded man, and he did not understand these things. “You think I would ever hurt the girl?” he seethed, narrowing his eyes.

            “You have always been a hot-blooded man, brother…but no, I do not think you would hurt Princess Sansa. Not on purpose…” he looked as if to say more, but his eyes squeezed shut in pain, and he groaned.

            _My cue to go_ , thought Oberyn bitterly. _As it has been for years…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so I know there wasn't too much relationship building, but I really wanted to move the plot along. Let me know if you were surprised, or how you expected me to keep Jamie trapped in Dorne with his Dornish princess!


	9. Chapter Nine

Oberyn inhaled deeply, breathing in the spiced oil he’d tipped into the bath. Swirling clouds of steam rose from the water, tinged with plums and reds as if by some potion, not just a vial of scent he had picked up in Lys upon his last visit. The empty star shaped bottle sat on the edge of the copper tub now, and Oberyn wondered if he’d ever acquire its like again. _Perhaps Sansa would like to see the Free Cities one day_ , he mused, feeling his muscles relax in the scalding water. Two months at sea had not been as kind as they once had been. _Even among all the foreign beauties, no one would dare take an eye off her…_

“Oberyn?”

            He opened his eyes, and a warm smile came across his lips. “You may come in, you know,” he said, amused. She stood with the door open just a crack, and her face shone even paler than the marble of the chamber’s polished walls.

            Sansa entered, albeit a bit hesitantly, and stood, hands clasped, against the wall. She kept her eyes demurely away from Oberyn’s steaming tub and soaking body, and her cheeks flushed pink from not just the humid air. “Forgive me …it will take time to get used to such things.”

            Oberyn frowned slightly, sitting up and resting both arms against the tub’s edge. He had thought Sansa would be more used to him by now. They had, after all, spent two months in one another’s company. _Not that I mind too much_ , he thought, tilting his head. His eyes roamed over his blushing, young wife. _Her spirit is not of the Dornish kind...it will be new for both of us. All of us, once Dorne beholds its new princess. And maybe that is just the kind we need here—a blushing maiden whose fire drowns them all before they can even turn to scream._

“And I assume you came all the way up here just to spy on your husband’s private bath?” he teased, gesturing loosely to the tub. “Or did you care to join?”

            A smile broke her mask, but her body remained rigid against the wall. “I…I came to ask you something,” she said, hands wringing. “I have already been introduced to your family—Prince Doran, Prince Trystane…”

            “Go on,” he encouraged gently.

            “And I know it is but our first night in Sunspear…but…but I was wondering why I did not meet Ellaria and your daughters…you have never even mentioned them. Do you not want them to know me?” The words tumbled out at the end, their frenzy so soft Oberyn had to lean forward, water rippling gently at the movement, to hear.

            Oberyn sighed and held out a hand. She stepped closer and took it despite the perfumed water now dripping down onto her silken sleeve. He clasped it tightly, gazing up at her wide blue eyes and ignoring whatever propriety she likely desired. “My lovely girl,” he murmured, rubbing his thumb across the back of her hand. “I want all of Dorne—all of the _world_ —to know you. But Ellaria, my daughters…they have been my world for so long. I did not ask them to greet us because I did not want you to feel threatened. It is the dawn of our marriage, Sansa. I did not want to cast a shadow just yet.” He drew her closer, kissing her hand lightly before allowing it to slip away.

            She sank down onto her knees beside the tub, keeping her eyes down as she idly played with the empty oil vial. “Not because you thought they would hate me?”

            Oberyn leaned forward, ignoring the water slapping at the tub’s sides and threatening to spill out. He brought a finger to her chin, lifting it so she met his eyes. “No one could ever hate you. And even if they did, it would not matter anymore,” he said fiercely. “You are the Queen in the North now, a Princess of Dorne. No one—not Ellaria, not my daughters, not that woman we call Queen nor her kingslaying brother—will ever hurt you again.” He softened slightly, cupping her cheek in his hand. “My family knows I had to take a bride one day…and it will make it even sweeter tomorrow once they see the winter rose I have wed.”

            Sansa leaned into his touch and closed her eyes briefly in silent thanks and relief. “Tomorrow? Do you really mean it?” When her eyes opened, a burst of excitement and nerves shone from within.

            Oberyn kissed her forehead. “I will have a rider send for them as soon as the sun rises,” he assured her. “Is there anything else you might ask of me, to feel more confident in our marriage?”

            Sansa’s eyes travelled along his chest, unabashed despite the redness her cheeks betrayed. “On our wedding night, you saw the scars across my back…and you said you have your own.” Her blush deepened as she met his eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

            Sansa rose from the marble floor, gown sticking to her legs from the pool by her feet, as her husband rose from the steaming tub. He held her gaze as he stood, olive-skinned body emerging from hazy, purple clouds that seemed to cling to his glistening skin before disappearing into the cool air. She tried to keep her eyes up, realizing that this was the first time she had seen her husband disrobed. He seemed to realize this too, and a smirk played at his lips. Amused, perhaps, but not unkind.

             “In Dorne all the little princes and princesses dance and play in the Water Gardens as they were born.”

            Despite her thudding heart, Sansa managed to match his teasing. “I suppose you will have to take me there soon, then.” She gave what she hoped was a wicked smile, but it quickly faded behind her blush.

            Oberyn’s dark eyes flickered as he bit back a laugh. “I suppose so.” He stepped out of the tub, turning to retrieve a pair of loose breeches on a nearby stool. Sansa’s eyes roamed over his tanned, muscled body and downwards with a blush and strange flood of heat to her already burning veins. The lighting was too dim to see any scars, so when he turned, smirk still in its place, Oberyn took her by the hand and led her to the main chamber.

            Large windows, open to the cool breeze and outlined in leaded glass, stretched up towards the high ceiling and down to the earthy, stone-tiled floor. Weightless, silken curtains swayed lazily in the evening air, casting the large chamber in warm, blood-orange light. Oberyn led her past the disheveled canopy bed and towards a window, now pulling the shade aside to let sun’s remaining light flood in.

            Sansa could not help it—a gasp escaped as her eyes fell open his back, and a hand went to her mouth. He was turned away from her, one hand lingering on the curtain and the other, fingers clenched, by his side. The taunt muscles of his back tensed at her reaction.

            “I did not know,” she breathed out, raising a hand but not yet daring to step closer. A web of scars laced his back—she had called her own marks a _web_ before, not knowing the true meaning of the word. _What a fool I was,_ Sansa chided herself, _to see so much horror in my own insignificant wounds._ The raised, white lines had grown smooth from sun and age, but their pattern lingered, and Sansa doubted they would ever fade. These lines were not careless, nor scattered about haphazardly like the ones she bore herself, relics of Joffrey’s beatings when she displeased him. The deep scars upon her husband’s back drew a spider’s web itself—intricate, pain-stakingly cut and recut, broken and healed, broken and healed countless times until their image burned poignant across his back.

            “What do you see?” he asked quietly.

            “I—” She could not think clearly, for the horrible sight nearly brought tears to her eyes. _So much pain…what have I—what have any of us suffered compared to this?_ Sansa willed herself to move forward, and she stretched out a hand. Her fingertips ran along a cross section inlaid between his shoulder blades, and a shiver went up her spine. “How could a man do this to you?”

            He let out a low, bitter laugh. “What will a man at war _not_ do? I was in the free cities—a good fighter, and an even greater fool. I was young and stupid and drunk on love…” Oberyn sighed, shaking his head as Sansa’s hands traced lower down his back. “A group of Tyroshi sellswords had their eyes on Ellaria, and so naturally I confronted them. I said, proud and naïve, ‘I am the Red Viper of Dorne, and that is my woman you stare at.’”

            Sansa smiled weakly, imagining a young, darker-haired and more handsome than ever Oberyn. “And that did not frighten them?” she asked, drawing a line upwards, sending a trail of fire down her own skin and wondering if he felt it too.

            “I suppose I will never know…” he said, almost wistfully. “These men were soldiers, drunk and poor after fighting another man’s war. They took pleasure in my pain, cut these lines upon my back because they had nothing else—no gold, no lands, no wives. I was nothing to them, but still they took from me because they could. They branded me with their own pain so I would never forget.” He suddenly turned, catching her hand in his own. His eyes flashed, dark and dangerous. “Men will stop at nothing to take what they desire, Sansa,” he murmured, bending low over her. “Not until you take your vengeance…that is what these scars taught me. That is what they remind me of—I will always take back what is mine. You do not want to know what happened to them.”

            Sansa’s eyes flickered away, and she drew back slightly. She had an uneasy feeling that he spoke not only of his past, but of her own as well. “Oberyn…” she started, pulling her hand from his grasp.

            His eyes flashed once more, then it was as if he broke free from whatever dark thoughts plagued his mind. His eyes softened, and he said quietly, “I know what happened that night, Sansa. The night the Greyjoy men attacked the ship. I know what came of it.”

            Sansa bit her lip. _Can he possibly know about all the nights Ser Jaime and I spent together?_ she wondered, praying the worry would not come across her face. She didn’t want to know what Oberyn might do… _Ser Jaime merely comforted me,_ Sansa told herself, planning her case. _What any knight would do for a lady…_

“Oberyn,” she said quickly, nervously. “I can explain—”

            “And I want you to know I understand.”

            The words melted from her tongue, and she felt her mouth go dry. Her mind whirled; she had been expecting anything but _understanding_ from her hot-blooded husband. Disappointment, anger, punishment, even, but not _this_. “You do?” she squeaked out, feeling the blood rush away from her face.

            Oberyn’s lips turned upwards, and he cupped her cheek in his hand. A smile played there, dangerous as it was sweet. “I understand why you were so afraid that night, why you sought shelter in the Kingslayer’s arms when I could not be there…and I forgive you for it. You heard the sounds of battle from above—men dying, the screaming of swords. The wind ripped from their lungs. And you didn’t yet know that _the war could be yours._ That you no longer needed to be afraid.” He ended with a fierceness to his tone, his touch, and his eyes flashed again. “But you know that now, I am sure of it…I know you will not seek his comfort again.”

            His words played over and over in her mind, tinged with a feeling of shame that she did not tell him the truth. As his hand stroked her cheek, Sansa smiled weakly back in agreement, letting him know he was right. She didn’t quite like how he talked about her, as if it was war she wanted deep down, not just comfort from the ghosts that plagued her so. _But what harm could there be, if he sees me in such a way? He believes I am strong, that I_ want _the vengeance he speaks so dearly of. Nothing will ever come of it…let him sing these pretty songs._ Sansa’s heart swelled at the thought, and she nearly laughed. _In Dorne they sing too, only here they sing of princesses playing at war. Besides,_ Sansa told herself, thinking of the anger that sometimes crossed her husband’s eyes, _you cannot tell the truth of Ser Jaime. He will kill him, or worse, and Myrcella will have no one to protect her._ Sansa relaxed in his firm touch and the words she told herself.

            “Come, Sansa,” he said suddenly, dropping her face for her hand. He flashed a grin. “There is something you must see.” He led her towards one of the curtained windows, but when the orange silk was pulled aside, a balcony stood there instead.

            Sansa gasped as she stepped out onto the gleaming stone, clutching Oberyn’s arm. He led her right up to the wrought-iron rail, and Sansa’s eyes drank in the whole of Sunspear before her. “Why have you hid this view until now?” she accused, voice breathless in the evening breeze.

            He laughed. “It is the most beautiful sight in the world,” he answered softly, turning to her. His lips found her jaw, soft and gentle. “Only a setting sun could do it justice.”

            And he was right—the sun, large and ripe and deep red, hung heavily above the Summer Sea, its sparkling waters so smooth the sky dripped all the way to the shore, painted in the heavens’ flaming likeness. From the sea that stretched outwards until it disappeared into the distant mountains, grew walls and towers and turrets of marble, now stained pink and bronze under the setting sun. Their balcony clung far above the city, but Sansa could make out even the miniature people, horses, and carts that flitted about the streets further in the distance, where the sounds of shops and inns and _life_ floated upwards from. _It is a scene from a song_ , Sansa finally decided as her eyes swept again over the glowing city. _And even the air matches its beauty._ She breathed deeply, and the scent of citrus and spices flooded her nose. When she unwillingly released the sweet breath, her husband’s words drew her back to him.

            “This is my home, Sansa,” he murmured against her ear, sending tingles across her skin. “These are my people.” His lips brushed against hers, and a hand found her waist. “And now it is _yours_.”

            His mouth took hers, slowly at first and giving her time to pull away. Sansa’s mind went blank except for the words that ran through her head, _yours, yours, yours_ —they brimmed with a longing he could not hide, and as they flew endlessly inside her head, Sansa suddenly found herself kissing him back. She parted her lips tentatively and a hand went to his bare chest to steady herself. He was taking her, tasting her, and Sansa did it back. A sound escaped—from her throat or his, she did not want to know—and he pushed deeper inside her mouth. His hand slid up her waist, brushing her ribs and then the underside of her breast, and he pulled her closer, flush against his chest. He tasted of hunger and desire and Sansa was suddenly brought back to a night not long ago. Darkness clouded her mind and the roar of thunder shook her bones and a hand groped between her legs—

            “Sansa!”

            Her eyes flew open, and she stared around wildly. She found herself turned away from him, arms wrapped around herself and the last note of a sob, pungent and bitter, upon her tongue. She did not remember pushing him away or spilling the wetness on her cheeks, only the dark, fading memory that yanked her away from the sweetness that had been.

            “I—I don’t know what happened,” said Sansa shakily, dropping her arms and staring at them with wide eyes. She turned back to him, hastily wiping at her cheeks.

            Oberyn studied her, his brows pulled together and his eyes just barely glinting with…with what she thought to be thin threads of disappointment. “No, it is my fault,” he said quietly. His composure was rigid now, so unlike the gentle body she had been intertwined with. He tried to soften with a faint smile, but it was a weak one, and Sansa knew it was just for show. “I should not have pushed…should not have tried before you were ready.”

            Words of contradiction hung from her tongue, but Sansa could not bring herself to speak. _I am ready for…for whatever this is_ , she told herself, willing it to be true. _It is what he so clearly wants, and I am his wife…it is my duty…_ Whatever had just happened while they kissed seemed to have evaporated from her mind, and Sansa chided herself for reacting so. _It will not happen again_ , she told herself, staring off at the sky that had so suddenly lost itself to night. _Not now, not when I know how he thinks of me…_

            Sansa felt a hand close over her shoulder, and she met his eyes. “It is late…I would like to retire for the night, my princess.” He laid a chaste kiss upon her brow and disappeared inside, weightless curtain taunting her in the breeze.

            Sansa sighed, rubbing the aching spot between her eyes. She laid her hands upon the blessedly warm iron rail—night had come to Dorne, the taste of winter in her breath.

            “Tell me what to do,” she muttered to the fading sun, its glow just visible above the far-off sea. “Tell me who I am…who I need to be.” The sun did not answer. No one answered. And too soon the sun dropped away, leaving its marble city pale beneath its smaller, weaker twin. Sansa did not know how long she stood there, but when she took notice again, the sky burned inky black, and stars sprayed out like ash among its depths.

            Far out to the north, past the city and past the orange trees, clustered buildings, pink even under the moon’s pale light. She was too far to hear, but Sansa imagined the silence that must ring about those clear blue pools at night, the loneliness that hung above the Water Gardens when no children played and laughed. Sansa gazed at it longingly, squinting closer until she could nearly see the spray of water above the walls, the heavy fruits climbing high against the blushing walls, the—

            “How strange,” Sansa murmured, tilting her head. Even from so far away, the balcony allocated a great view of the sloping hillside leading up to the Gardens, and the road leading to its gates shone stark and empty against the dessert sand. Except it wasn’t empty—a dark spot moved quickly in the distance, with three others tailing close behind. _Riders_ , Sansa decided. _Riders in the night_. She smiled. Back home where winter ravaged the countryside, no one dared to sneak around at night. She did not know much of Dorne, but the idea of brave men moving swiftly under the moon’s weak light to replenish the Garden’s sweet fruits and cool pools filled her head with songs of kinder times. _Perhaps they will be my songs too, to go along with Oberyn’s songs of war and vengeance._

The riders finally disappeared, and Sansa swept her eyes over the glowing city once more. Voices, laughter, and songs of the night carried even to their tower, and Sansa sighed sadly at the sounds. _Sunspear is so beautiful, but how much of her will I know?_ She longed to join them, to find joy with the people Oberyn now claimed to be hers, but she knew it was of no use. _I am Dorne’s princess, that much is clear…not Dorne’s friend._ One need only look upon her tower, a golden, gilded cage, to see its truth. A wind teased at her cheeks, wicking away the tears she’d forgotten.

With nothing left but moonlight and a lingering stillness upon the balcony, Sansa stepped back inside. Oberyn slept soundly, arms splayed out against the wrinkled sheets with a softness he never bore awake. She hesitated by his bed, wondering if she ought to join him. An image of hazy sunlight and gentle kisses filled her eyes, a sweet morning her husband deserved to wake to. Why could it not be true? Sansa stepped closer, her hand resting against the mattress.

             But when she looked at him again, she remembered why. _These nightmares haunt me yet…what will he think if I wake, thrashing and kicking, in the night?_ Sansa could not bear to risk it, and so she crept away from her husband, away from the happiness that seemed so unlikely to ever come, and into her own shadowed, empty chamber. Night hung there too, cradling her until she fell into a fitful sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm graduating from high school atm (finally), and have a lot of exams and such, so sorry for the sporadic updating. It should get more regular in the coming weeks...anyway, thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Also, I'm looking for a fellow writer to maybe collaborate with. I have some smut planned, but I've never really written it before, and I don't know if I could do it justice. If you're interested in collabing for at least one scene, please let me know and we can chat.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So action scenes are a beast to write...I apologize for what ensures, but the plot must go on!

Jaime stood by Myrcella’s side, frowning as he took in the scene before them. They stood just outside the guarded entrance to the Water Garden’s, waiting in the blistering sun for the introduction of the Dornishman’s paramour to come to an end. They also waited for the boy Trystane to show up, much to Jaime’s dislike. Jaime had been called to accompany the party to the Gardens, not to babysit an arrogant Dornish prince who had nothing better to do than get his betrothed pregnant and splash about in Jaime’s face. _Look at me…I’m turning as bitter as my sweet sister._

            He watched Sansa step forward to the dark-haired, willowy woman, and even at this distance, Jaime could make out the apprehension on her face. He tried to imagine himself in the girl’s shoes, then quickly pushed the thought away. _If Cersei had brought her paramour before me, I would have smiled too…but not before painting her a crimson smile on her lover’s face from ear to ear._

            “Ellaria Sand…” Jaime muttered to himself as the woman kissed both of Sansa’s cheeks, then her mouth. Sansa recoiled slightly, but her husband’s arm around her shoulders held her in place.

            “I hated her at first, you know,” came a soft voice to his left.

            Jaime glanced down, surprised. He hadn’t spoken to Myrcella at all since arriving in Sunspear, and he wasn’t sure now was the right time. She was with child by some curse of the gods, away from her mother for years, and all but alone in a country that hated Lannisters. Jaime hoped that Sansa would be good for her, someone of her own kind to talk with. _Someone that isn’t you…not yet, anyway. Not until she learns the truth, and that day will never come_. Still, they had more than nine months together, and the least Jaime could do was come to pleasant terms with the girl.

            “I know the feeling,” said Jaime, his eyes turning back to the party by the gates. They fell on Oberyn, and Jaime’s frown deepened. They were all laughing now, and Oberyn’s arms had snaked their way around both of the women’s waists.

            “Mother warned me of people like her. She said all they ever wanted was to hurt me.”

            “Your mother fears a great many people, whether or not she’ll admit it. She has reason though, with that one,” he added, nodding to Ellaria. “A paramour, warrior, master of poisons—”

            “And a mother.” Myrcella twisted a golden lock around her finger and chewed at her lip. A bead of sweat ran from her forehead, dripping down onto the yellow silk of her gown. “She was awful to me when I first arrived, but now…” Myrcella dropped the hair, turning to look up at Jaime. “A few weeks ago she changed. I don’t know why…but she began to be kind to me. It is silly, but I think she could tell I was with child. She knew I was to be a mother too.”

            Jaime had trouble meeting her eyes—they shone a pale emerald in the blazing sun, so much like her mother’s that it pained him to look. He glanced away, loudly clearing his throat to fill the awkward silence that had followed his daughter’s words. It was hard enough to believe Ellaria Sand would treat the Lannister princess _kindly_ all of a sudden, but Myrcella’s mention of motherhood… _that is another beast entirely. One I never hoped to come across._

A squeal sounded, and Myrcella ran forward, throwing herself into the approaching boy’s arms. He spun her around once, placed a not-so-chaste kiss upon her lips, then stepped forward. “Ser Jaime,” he said, bowing his dark head.

            Jaime smirked at the little princeling. The boy was the spitting image of his uncle, alike except the warm, honey-colored eyes of his father. “Prince Trystane. How good it is to meet you last.” He eyed the boy’s perfectly twisted curls, the heavily embroidered silk robes, the ruby-inlaid bobble that swung against his smooth, partially-exposed chest. A blade hung from his hip, so encrusted in ornaments, gold, and jewels that Jaime doubted the boy could even lift with one hand, let alone cut a man’s throat. “I cannot wait to tell my sister of the glorious warrior her daughter may wed.”

            The prince’s cocky smile fell slightly. “ _May_ wed?” he asked, laughing despite the nerves creeping up through his eyes.

            “Oh, I am sorry!” said Jaime, frowning deeply while he raked a hand through his hair. “I nearly forgot—it is just that where I am from, men who break their promises are not so easily trusted again.” At the prince’s open mouth, Jaime stepped forward, placing his golden hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You must be so brave, Prince Trystane, to bed my niece before your wedding. Just _think_ of the war you could start if you do not marry her as well.”

            The boy kept his eyes locked on Jaime’s, jaw clenched. Finally, Myrcella tugged at his hand and pleaded, glaring briefly at Jaime, “Please, Trystane, let us go into the Gardens now. Forgive my uncle, he seems to have lost his manners while at sea for two months.” She pulled harder, and eventually the prince relented.

            Jaime bit back a laugh as he followed them inside the open gates. Inside the marble walls sat sparkling pools and fountains, with children of every birth and age splashing about beneath the beating sun. He found his way to a spot by the walls, where the shade of an orange tree pooled delightfully beneath its leaves. Jaime cut down one of the fruits, carefully peeling it as he gazed around.

             With no one to guard and no raiders, thieves, or pirates to fight off, Jaime relaxed against the wall, unbuckling his sword belt and dropping it by his feet. His eyes wandered from screaming toddlers running round and round a sun-shaped fountain to Trystane and Myrcella, not so secretly hiding beneath a cluster of tall ferns. Their bodies flashed beneath the web of leaves, orange and yellow flying as they—Jaime wrenched his eyes away, grimacing. _Why am I even here?_

            A wild motion tore Jaime’s eyes to the right—a figure emerged from beneath the water, laughing and lovely as she darted into her husband’s arms. With the pool only reaching to her hips, Jaime could clearly see the way her silk gown clung to her body, sucking to every curve in a way that cleared all other thoughts from his mind. _And what is the harm in watching_? Jaime wondered as Oberyn pulled playfully at the neck of the gown, revealing her pale shoulders to the blazing sun. _I was dragged along today to guard them…I’m_ supposed _to watch._ Something stirred down below, and he hated himself even more for it.

            And watch he did, until Jaime could no longer bare the sight of Sansa and her husband, laughing and splashing in the crystal pool. Most of the other children had cleared out by now, and he allowed his eyes to shut. The sun was too hot on his back, the fruit too sweet on his tongue, and the girl to painful to watch any longer. When he did happen another glance, Jaime noted that Oberyn now stood with his paramour, holding her to his chest. Sansa had drifted off towards the pools that lay beneath the bronze roofs. That section of the Gardens stood blocked off from the rest by huge, pale columns, and Jaime got just glimpses of her flaming hair as she passed further into the covered, more secluded area.

            _Good_ , thought Jaime, closing his eyes once more. _Now I needn’t be tortured while I try to sleep…perhaps my dreams will be sweeter as well._

* * *

 

 

Sansa moved with her fingertips skimming the water’s surface, enjoying how it seemed to cool beneath her touch as she went further inside the covered pool. Only weak sunlight filtered in between huge marble columns, and slits of light beamed through to illuminate the dark water. She shivered slightly but continued on, wanting to explore this more secluded area. A fountain sat at the other end, intricate and grand and green with age, and Sansa could not help but go towards it now.

            Just as she turned the corner, Sansa glanced back over her shoulder. She could just make out Oberyn and Ellaria in the sunshine-filled pool by the Garden’s gates, now intertwined in each other’s arms. She had been nervous about meeting her, but Ellaria had been nothing but kind so far.

            _Though it is strange,_ Sansa noted as she continued on, _how forward she was with me…kissing my mouth when we met when my husband took many months to do the same._ Sansa laughed at how strange it all was, but in truth she did not mind her husband’s paramour. _She offers him something I cannot…something hard and fierce and passionate._ As the water deepened and she was forced to swim in earnest now, Sansa thought back on the previous night, on the way Oberyn kissed her and told her of his plans. _He expects me to be like her someday…and then will we be different at all? Can the Viper’s wife be so different from his lover? Or are they one in the same?_

            “Finally,” Sansa muttered, latching on to the smooth stone. She had finally reached the other end, and the great fountain rose up above her. She was glad for the distraction—too much thinking about her husband and new life gave her a headache.  

            Pulling herself along the fountain’s rim, Sansa gazed up and admired the fine stonework. Thousands of dancing figures had been cut into the stone, and now from age and lack of light, they had turned smooth and soft, faceless people whose mouths poured water into the pool below. _Arya would have loved this_ , Sansa thought sadly as she brushed one of the figure’s arms, which were raised wildly to the ceiling. In joy though, she could not be sure, for the little dancer’s face had all but washed away. _This dark, secret pool with a thousand mysteries to solve…Tyrion would have too. He would have searched all day for a book on the place, then—_

A strange sound unlike anything she’d ever heard came from behind. A _hiss._ Sansa’s hand froze as she forced herself to turn.

            Eyes widening in horror, Sansa scampered wildly backwards. A snake, black as night and wider than her arm, was darting straight towards her in the water. A scream caught in her throat, and the fountain’s bumpy surface slammed into her head—there was no place else to go and the wall was too high to climb and the snake was coming closer and closer, about to sink it’s razor-sharp fangs into her neck—

            A hand plunged into the water, and the beast let out a horrible _hiss_. Sansa whirled around to see a girl standing at the pool’s edge with a flashing silver dagger in her hand. The snake thrashed at her feet, stark black against white just like the marble’s curved veins. The girl flashed a grin at Sansa, then swung her blade with a great flourish. The body twitched, then fell still.

            Rising, the girl studied the dark blood coating her blade. Then her eyes turned to Sansa, who still clung to the pool’s edge in shock.

            “Your dress.”

            “I—what?” Sansa’s eyes were fixated on the thing’s body and the thick blood pooling from its severed head.

            “ _Your dress_ ,” snapped the girl, pointing at Sansa with her blade. “I’m not using _mine_ to wipe this shit off.” When Sansa didn’t move, the girl bent over and grabbed a fistful of silk by her shoulder, yanking her closer. The girl held her fast even when she flinched away from the blade.

            “I—I didn’t understand,” Sansa began, feeling ashamed and stupid. She shrugged the bloodied fabric back over her shoulder.

            The girl let her go and laughed, eyeing her blade with a satisfied smirk. She sheathed it, lifting up her skirt. “Good thing you’re in the water, princess…snakes are harder to kill in the sand. That’s their home, you know.”

            Sansa frowned slightly at the girl’s words, but she _had_ just saved her from what looked like a painful death. “I thank you, then…”

            “Don’t you know who I am?” She squatted down, eyeing Sansa with amusement.

            _Blonde hair, blue eyes, skin tanned from the sun…_ Her eyes roamed the girl’s clothes—practical, plain-looking things more fit for riding than anything else. _She can’t be highborn and doesn’t look Dornish, unless…_ The snake’s severed head stared back at her, it’s one dark eye laughing. “You’re Tyene Sand…one of Prince Oberyn’s daughters.”

            Tyene ignored this, and to Sansa’s alarm, she reached forward and grabbed a lock of her wet hair, twisting it between her fingers. “I thought you’d be uglier…and older.” She gave the hair a playful yank, then smirked. The way her lips curved, the way her eyes flashed as if only _they_ knew some great secret, reminded Sansa startlingly of her husband.

            “Did no one tell you I’d be arriving?” Sansa accused, trying to sound like the princess they said she was. She mustered her best glare, but Tyene only laughed again.

            “Oh they did, but from the way he described you…” She paused tilting her head and closing one eye. “Well, let’s just say you’re much prettier without a wolf’s head!” Tyene giggled at her own jest, then stuck out a hand. Her face beamed down, all pale and lovely and innocent despite the bloody animal lying by her feet “Come, _mother_ , I want to show you a game. This place _does_ get boring, after all.”

            Sansa eyed the hand, wanting to remain in the pool and study the ancient fountain. _You must show her who you are_ , a voice inside her whispered. _Show her you’re not afraid…it’s what Oberyn would want._ With that thought in mind, Sansa allowed the girl to hoist her out of the pool, a bit surprised at the strength hiding in the girl’s slight frame.

            “Have you ever played _Viper and Hare_?” Tyene asked, tapping her foot while Sansa straightened her sopping gown. The stain at her shoulder had spread out into an ugly, crimson wound.

            “No,” said Sansa, frowning. She thought it sounded like a silly game, not a thing for a princess and a warrior to play. Tyene couldn’t be older than herself, and Sansa hadn’t played games in years. Not since Winterfell, since before King’s Landing…But she _did_ want this girl to like her, and she wanted more than anything to prove herself to these strange Dornish people. “If you told me the rules, I could play.”

            Tyene grinned, grabbing Sansa’s hands. She looked so sweet now, nothing like the frightening girl with the silver blade. “Oh, it’s easy, Sansa! One of us will be the viper, and one of us will be the hare. The hare has to hide where the viper says, and then the viper has to catch them. Isn’t it glorious, Sansa?”

            Sansa bit her lip, now more unsure about this than ever. “But isn’t that unfair? If the viper _tells_ the hare where to hide?”

            Tyene shook her head and laughed, making Sansa blush for asking the question. “Of course not, silly. Vipers will _always_ have more power than hares. That’s just how things work.” Her eyes wandered over Sansa’s body once, then returned to Sansa’s face. She pursed her lips and brushed back her tangled hair. “Now you go hide over there,” she said lightly, pointing above Sansa’s shoulder. “And I’ll catch you!”

            Sansa turned and saw a wooden door on the far wall, half shadowed in the corner. _Of course I have to be the hare,_ she thought miserably, picking up her gown to make her way towards the hiding spot. _Even when I’m Oberyn’s wife, they think me weak and small…_

            With some effort, Sansa managed to wrench open the door. As she stepped inside, her nose wrinkled in disgust. The chamber was small and only dimly lit from slits set high into the dark stone walls. An iron grate, rusted with age and damp, concealed a dark hole in the wall from which a pungent smell was seeping. _Sewers_ , thought Sansa, swallowing thickly. Other than a second wooden door at the other end, the chamber was empty. Water trickled down one grimy wall, plopping ceaselessly into a murky puddle below.

            “ _Go hide over there!_ ” Sansa said in a high, false voice. It echoed against the tall walls, mocking Sansa herself more than Tyene, it seemed. _Gods, what was I thinking…_ Sansa kicked out at the darkness in frustration, then cried out when pain shot up her bare foot. “ _What a fun game!_ ” she breathed out, grimacing.

Sansa bent down to inspect her foot. A small shard of glass had sliced it open, and Sansa bit back tears as she gripped the piece. It was just a piece of glass, nothing she couldn’t fix herself. Sansa sucked in a breath. _One, two—_

            _BOOM!_

            Sansa whirled around to find the door shut. _It’s just the wind…just the wind_ , she told herself, knowing full well she was inside with no breeze to speak of. Hobbling with her hand clutching the rough wall, Sansa pulled herself over and placed a hand on the iron handle.

            “Oh no, no, no,” Sansa muttered furiously, twisting the it back and forth. She slammed her weight against the door, crying out in pain. The door just stood there, heavy and mocking and unmistakably _locked._

“Tyene!” Sansa yelled, banging on the door. _I will hate her for this, I will tell Oberyn and he’ll—_ “Tyene! Tyene, open the door!”

            _CRACK!_

            Sansa turned slowly towards the sound, her belly instinctively filling with cold, seeping dread. She stared with horror at the second door.

            _CRACK!_

            Now she saw it—huge splinters, yellow and sharp and jarring, stuck out from the door. And Sansa knew—from the ice crystalizing in her belly or the blood freezing in her veins or the heart screaming against its cage—that she did not want to meet who wanted to come inside.

            “Tyene!” Sansa screamed, pounding furiously at the door. “Tyene! Oberyn!... _Jaime_!”

 

* * *

 

 

            He was watching her, watching as she walked towards him among the great white trees. Her fingers brushed their trunks, impossibly paler and more lovely than even the moon-lit bark. Jaime couldn’t move; he was stuck deep within the grove, and tree roots clung to his legs. But somehow, that was no pain. He felt no panic in the grove, for he knew she would reach him. She would always reach him in the end.

            Jaime closed his eyes, feeling the soft earth crumble beneath his two warm hands. She was singing now, high and lovely, and perhaps it had made him whole again. Her voice swept out higher and higher, the notes rising and falling like…like

            _Like Steel?_

            Jaime jerked awake, and his golden hand fell heavily to the ground. Chaos whirled in his still cloudy vision, and he scrambled into a standing position. His eyes darted first to Myrcella, cowering behind Trystane and half hidden in the ferns. The boy had his blade drawn, its tip trembling in the direction of the steel’s shrill song.

            Two men flew at Oberyn, their greatswords swinging as they lunged and jumped, spun and danced towards and away, steel clashing against steel before whistling just out of reach once more. _Trained knights?_ Jaime wondered absurdly.   _And good ones?_ Jaime hastened to grab his own sword, cursing through his teeth when he instinctively went for it with his right hand.

            _What in the seven hells happened?_ Jaime wanted to shout, bewildered at the scene. Children, some naked, some haphazardly clothed, cried and screamed and ran as they surged on the open gates, their flight blurring into a haze of brown skin on pale pink stone, and Jaime even thought he saw smears of blood on the pale marble. No other guards leapt forward to help their prince—and only a few had even been on duty at the gates, he remembered suddenly. Jaime stood there in shock— _who would attack us_ here?—before Oberyn’s strained cry snapped him out of it.

            “Kingslayer!” Oberyn roared, ducking to his left as one of the men lunged to his right. “Behind you!” He disappeared in a scream of steel as Jaime whirled around, expecting another man.

            Confused at first, he had to squint under the sun’s searing glare. Then his breath hitched—three silver, four-prong hooks hung against the marble walls from thick, twisted rope, the kind Jaime would have men use to climb a castle’s walls at siege. Jaime whipped back around to see the Viper still battling the two attackers.

            _Two._

            Jaime gazed back at the wall, his stomach plunging. _Three hooks, two men…_

            A scream rang out, this one filled with pain instead of song. One of the men clutched at his leg while Oberyn dove at the other—the man wouldn’t last long, but he could still do damage on the outnumbered Dornishman.

            Jaime began to sprint forward, feeling the smooth hilt in his hand and the wind against his hair, ready to fight, ready to do what he was meant to do, ready to kill—

            “Not me, you fucking bastard!” Oberyn shouted, barely chancing a glance as he slammed his blade into one of the men’s breastplate. The man flew backwards with a cry. “I’ll get Myrcella out, go find Sansa!”

            Jaime skidded to a halt, and his eyes fell upon the gate. “They’ll be more men that way!” he shouted. “How am I going to—”

            Oberyn released a roar of pain as a man landed a grazing blow to his shoulder. He scrambled away just in time before the second man, the one he’d previously knocked to the ground, came at him from the side. “I don’t care!” he bellowed. “ _Just find my fucking wife!_ ”

            Jaime didn’t bother to see if he was ok—whoever these men were, they had nothing on the Prince of Dorne. Jaime could at least admit that. He racked his brain for where Sansa could be, his feet carrying him forward until Jaime found himself inside, sprinting alongside a large, shadowed pool. One lone door stood at the far wall, ominous and sealed shut.

            As he came to a skidding halt, Sansa’s shouts reached his ears, muffled by the wood and the sound of fists slamming into the door.

            “Sansa!” Jaime tried the handle. _Locked._ He yanked at it furiously, snarling.

            Her beating ceased, and almost fearfully she whispered, “Jaime?”

            “It’s me,” he answered shortly, trying to sound calm as not to frighten her further. “Listen, we were attacked—”

            “Someone’s here.” Her voice cut him off, strained and laced with choking fear. “Jaime, you have to get me out. They’re breaking through the door and—and I don’t know how much longer it will hold—”

            _CRACK!_

            Sansa’s voice broke off, and Jaime could _feel_ the ice-cold fear seeping through the door.

            “ _Shit_ ,” Jaime snarled, staring hard at the handle. From its design, Jaime knew it was no use tearing it off from where he stood… _If only I could get it from her side,_ he thought desperately, reaching up to rake a hand through his hair. The metal smoothed awkwardly over his head, hard and stiff, and Jaime stared at it with amazement. _Shit…maybe it’s not useless after all._

Jaime wanted to laugh, and he nearly did before remembering Sansa, frozen with fear on the other side. “You’re going to want to stand back for this.”

            “For wh—?”

            Jaime set his jaw and stepped back. He held out the golden hand, and it glimmered in the dim light. _One, two—_

The wood _cracked_ , and Sansa let out a yelp of surprise. Jaime heard her scramble away as he did it again—splinters groaned and snapped, his arm screamed out in protest—and again and again. Finally a ragged hole emerged, and Jaime thrust his good hand through, joints bending awkwardly to grasp the handle. Gritting his teeth, Jaime yanked. The iron fell to the ground with a _chink._

Sansa spilled from the door with a cry of relief, but Jaime roughly shoved her back inside and clapped a hand over her mouth. He shut the door behind them and put a finger to his lips just as a jarring _CRACK!_ sounded.

            “We can’t go back that way,” he said above his breath. The door at the other end looked stronger than the one he’d come through, but it was torn to bits now, and it wouldn’t be much longer until they too broke in.

            She gazed up at him, eyes wide and glazed with fear, then nodded. As Jaime removed his hand, Sansa held up a trembling finger to the wall—a grate hung there, rusted with age and wetness. Her chest heaved as he hand lowered, and he could tell she fought ever urge in her body not to make a sound.

            Jaime wanted to laugh again at the sight as he realized— _we’ll escape through the sewers…oh the songs they’ll sing of us._ Jaime looked back down at her and nodded. The door _CRACKED!_ again, and Jaime took Sansa’s hand, moving achingly slow through the foul-smelling room as to not make a sound. With a grunt, Jaime tore off the grate. He met Sansa’s eyes, she squeezed his hand with a frightful nod, and together they climbed into the sewer.

            Just as he covered the hole once more, footsteps thundered in, more men than Jaime dared to fight off himself. He steeled his eyes ahead, swallowing thickly. Only darkness stood before them. Vile, vomit-inducing darkness.

            _The Soiled Knight and his lady…what a shitty song that will be._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and I'd like to know what you thought of the length of this chapter. Too long? Could be longer? I had to broke what I originally wrote as one chapter into 10 and 11, but l'm curious about how much you actually want to read at a time.


	11. Chapter Eleven

Sansa sat back on her heels, gasping for breath. Her stomach flipped, and she held back the sourness rising in her throat. They had crawled for what seemed like miles in the darkness until the tunnel widened and they could walk at last. When she had risen, bones groaning in protest and foot throbbing, Sansa had noticed the small speck of light ahead. It looked just as far away as before, but at least now she could see a bit more… _Not that I’d_ want _to,_ she thought miserably. Every stone was slickened with brown, rancid sludge, and Sansa hated to think she blended in startlingly well.

            “Sansa,” panted Jaime, glancing over his shoulder. His face was streaked with what Sansa told herself was mud, and his once beautiful armor could not even reflect back her own face. “We have to keep moving.” Jaime turned and continued on. He’d been like that the whole time—silent and brooding—and Sansa wondered faintly if she’d angered him somehow.

            She pushed back her hair into a matted, sweaty mess, and stood, grabbing onto his arm.

            “What is it?” he snarled, turning at her.

            Sansa didn’t even bother to shy away—she was hot and exhausted and _sick_ of trudging through shit. A sharp reply about princesses and sewers hung ripe from her tongue, but before it could fall, Sansa felt her body sway to the side—her head spun, and the tunnel blurred into a mess of various shades of shit-brown.

            A hand caught her, and Jaime’s voice drifted in, warped and strangely muffled. The sound of her own heart drowned him out— _one-two, one-two!—_ far too fast than was normal. Sansa felt herself rise into the air, and her cheek pressed against his blessedly cool chest.

            “Sansa?” His face swam back into focus. _He looks afraid_ , Sansa thought absently. Her head throbbed, biting between her eyes. The face disappeared again, but his voice remained. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

            She tried to raise her foot—it’d been bleeding for hours now, but she’d shoved it aside. _I am a wolf and a viper,_ Sansa had told herself through the pain. _A scratch does not hurt me. Not anymore._ In truth she’d worried more about what Oberyn would say if he heard she’d stopped at such a trivial wound. _I am_ his _wolf, his viper…_

            Jaime’s hand finally found her foot, and Sansa flinched at his touch and his harsh, reprimanding words. It must have been deeper than she realized. _I am sorry_ , Sansa wanted to say, though her tongue refused to work, heavy and dull and dry. Her fingers reached absently for Jaime’s face instead, the only spot she could reach. _I should have mentioned it…you would not have been angry with me…not like my husband._

            Jaime caught her fingers, and Sansa thought he pressed them to her lips, though she could not be sure. Everything was too hot, too loud, too much. Darkness began to blur at the edges, painting Jaime’s face with the fringes of night. She was falling, falling further into his arms, and his voice whispered in just as the fog clouded over, blanketing the world in darkness.

            “Do not worry, Sansa…I will always keep you safe... _I promise_.”

 

* * *

 

 

            Jaime met the guards’ eyes with a glower. They eyed his face, nearly black with shit, then they eyed the limp body in his arms. Matted and brown-coated strands of hair hung down, almost kissing the pristine marble floor, but her crown remained unmistakably red.

            “Do you _really_ want to question me now?”

            The guards glanced at each other, then the great doors swung open.

            They froze when he entered—Oberyn sat in his chair on the raised dais, with Ellaria’s hand cemented to his arm in a comforting gesture. Jaime ignored them—they could be shouting, gasping, _hissing_ for all he knew—and his eyes scanned the room.

            _Myrcella._ She sat off to the side, wrapped in Trystane’s arms. Her eyes looked puffy and red, and she gasped when she saw him.

            “Kingslayer!” Oberyn rose, and anger clearly brewed beneath his eyes.

            Jaime stepped forward, hoisting Sansa more securely into his arms. She stirred slightly at the jolt, though not for the fist time since they emerged just within the palace’s walls. Jaime whispered soothing words before returning his gaze to the others. Oberyn’s shout rendered meaning, and Jaime’s brow furrowed with surprise and then anger… _He’s angry that I got her out?!_

            “Is that what you call the man who just saved your wife?” Jaime asked through his teeth, trying to remain calm.  

            Oberyn strode forward, with Ellaria remaining by his seat, frozen in horror at their sight. He stopped just short, then reached out a hand to smooth the hair from Sansa’s face with an uncharacteristic gentleness. A strange look crossed his face. “You want _my_ thanks?” His dark eyes raised, and whatever concern they once held fled in the place of anger. Oberyn reached forward to take the girl from his arms, but Jaime stepped back in defense.  

            “Does the _shit_ covering your wife and your marble hall not mean anything to you, Viper? I carried her for miles under your stinking city. I saved her from—” 

            “From your own stupidity! If I recall correctly, _Kingslayer_ , you fell asleep while you were meant to guard my family! You didn’t realize even as men climbed the Gardens’ walls to attack! You got her out just as the bastards swarmed the place.” Oberyn’s eyes flashed, and his hand now went to his hip. Smears of blood covered his hands, badges from the two men and however many that followed he had slayed hours before. “This is the last time, _Ser_ Jaime,” he said in a low, dangerous voice. He spat the word _ser_ like it burned his lips. “The last time I let you anywhere near my wife. _Now get out._ ”

            Jaime reeled at his words, but as the anger boiled within him, the Dornishman suddenly grabbed Sansa from his arms. And with Sansa’s weak sounds of protest, Oberyn swept from the room. Black, rancid water dripped from his arms to the floor, and the prince’s footsteps smeared the shit further into the pale stone.

            _I fucking saved her, I carried your wife through shit while you danced around with your swords…_

            Jaime turned at the sound of footsteps behind him, a snarl on his lips. “Anyone else got something to…”

            His voice trailed off, and his face fell. “Myrcella,” he said hoarsely. The girl clung to Trystane’s arm as he led her quickly from the throne room, her tearful eyes lingering on Jaime’s face. Her lips pursed, as if to speak, but with a sharp yank by betrothed, she too left him alone by the door. _Is_ everyone _angry at me?_ Jaime thought bitterly. _Even my own daughter thinks I am at fault for this…_

A hand closed around his arm, and a whisper tickled his ear. “If you need to wash this shit off...” Ellaria’s voice purred, nails digging into his flesh.

            Jaime shrugged her off and sneered. “So you can murder me in the bath? I’ll leave that to the prince.”

            Ellaria stepped around him, moving cat-like to avoid Jaime’s own pool of putrid water that had collected beneath his feet. “It is no matter,” she said softly, shrugging her silk-clad shoulders. “Perhaps I will visit the princesses’ bath instead…” Ellaria smirked, and with one final squeeze, she sauntered from the room.

            Jaime stood there, staring at the paramour’s retreating back. The taste of shit coated his tongue, and he spit onto the filthy marble by his feet. It swirled in the disgusting puddle, bubbling and almost steaming in the heat in reply. His nose wrinkled, and the sour taste remained.

            _There goes nine pleasant months in Dorne…_ And as much as it pained him to think it, Jaime could not wait until his daughter bore a child. Then he would be free—free from these smirking, golden-skinned people, free from their blame and stupidity…and free from _her._

            Jaime’s stomach plunged, and he kicked out at the pool of shit with a frustrated roar. Dark, reeking water splashed up at his already filthy boots, and he strode heavily from the room without a glance back.


	12. Chapter Twelve

            “Come back to bed, my love.”

            Oberyn shut the chamber door quietly behind him—he had just gone to visit Sansa in her adjacent room for the third time that night. He padded back over to the rumpled bed, groaning as he laid down. Ellaria rested on her stomach, and Oberyn absently ran his fingers over her bare back as he shut his eyes. His muscles ached from the earlier fight, but he wondered if it was something more that slugged through his veins now, filling them with lead. Something he didn’t want to think about.

            Ellaria shifted beneath his touch, propping herself up on one elbow to face him. “Is that _all_ you want to do?” she purred, smoothing a hand over her bare hip and thigh. “I have not seen you in _ages_.”

            He stared at her warm, honey-colored skin, drinking in the curves, the glisten that always hungered him so. Everything about Ellaria was golden and fierce, and any other time he would have gladly made love to her right then and there. Instead Oberyn ran his own hand over her side, curling his fingers into the soft flesh before pulling it away. “I cannot tonight,” he muttered. He closed his eyes, and the image of his wife, pale as moonlight and peacefully at rest swam forwards.

            “Is it her? Is that why you will not make love to me?”

            The image drifted away, and he sighed. Ellaria’s dark lips curved downwards, and her eyes glowed in accusation. “You know that is not true—we have not even consummated the marriage.” He leaned over, taking her mouth in his, tasting her hunger and trying to reciprocate it. “It is just…When those Greyjoy men, those deserters found us, I was _sure_ it was by accident. I thought they saw her, young and lovely and seemingly undefended, and they wanted only a prize to explain their sins. Now I am not so sure.”

            Ellaria brushed a second kiss against his jaw before pulling back. “Perhaps you are right, my love. Perhaps these two attacks are connected.”

            “You think they came for her—”

            “I think they came where the Kingslayer happened to be,” said Ellaria, cutting him off. She sat up and seized his face, fierce and strong and lovely. Her large breasts swayed heavily from the sudden movement, and her nails clutched at his stubbled jaw. “What other explanation is there?”

            Oberyn pulled her hand away and stood, leaving her on the bed with her arm reaching out, clinging to nothing. He shuffled over to the full jug of Dornish red by the window, not even bothering to tie his robe as he poured a cup. The deep orange silk flapped lifelessly in the breeze, and Oberyn took a swallow before shrugging it off completely. There he stood, bare and stiff and aching. He downed the rest with a grimace. “Would you care for some?”

            “It looks like you’ll need it more for whatever you’re about to say,” said Ellaria dryly from the bed.

            “Some things taste better when you’re drunk.”

            “I know—I’ve tasted your cum.”

            Oberyn barked out a laugh, quick and sharp. He refilled the goblet. “I do not think the Lannister had something to do with this,” he said slowly, as if the words clung to the tip of his tongue, begging, just begging to be lies. “I was harsh earlier today, in the throne room. I saw my wife’s limp body carried in, her milk-white skin and red hair so slickened with shit she might not have been mine…but I do not blame him now.” Oberyn tipped the wine into his mouth, praying the liquid would mask the taste of what he was about to say. “I do not believe Ser Jaime would intentionally hurt her.”

            Ellaria was silent for several minutes. Oberyn nearly thought she had fallen asleep when a kiss brushed, feather-light, against his shoulder. “Believe what you will about the golden knight, but I would still keep him away from her.” She pressed her lips between his shoulders, then two hands smoothed over his side, coaxing him into her.

            Oberyn relented as she bit playfully at his neck. “Oh, do not worry about that, my love…even if the Kingslayer had nothing to do with this, I do not want him near her anymore. I cannot risk it, especially now.”

            Ellaria stepped in front of him, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her warm, smooth body against his. “Oh? And why is that?”

            “Whispers, my love…whispers from the east.” He kissed her just as her eyes widened in surprise, silencing her for a moment. When he drew back, Oberyn could almost _see_ the gears whirling behind those deep brown pools. Despite being in his paramour’s arms, the vision from before, of his flaming, snow-white queen clouded his eyes, and he stirred down below. “Come,” he growled. “I am not too tired after all.”

            Ellaria met his desire with an impish grin. She drew him back towards the bed, and Oberyn met her kiss for kiss, touch for touch, moan for moan. He only hoped, as her thighs clenched around him and her tongue dance dangerously with his, that she could not see the woman he gazed down at, the woman who breathed out his name and called him _hers._  

           

* * *

 

 

            “Myrcella, you can’t wear _that_ to your wedding!”

            The blonde-haired girl giggled, twirling as she stepped backwards down the garden path. “And why not?”

            Sansa rolled her eyes, though a smile curved at her lips. Myrcella had on a Dornish-style gown, the silk so soft and thin it appeared to be made of water. It hung from her slender frame, cinching at waist and then flowing out to kiss the dirt. The material couldn’t be worn even in King’s Landing for its lack of propriety—Sansa could even make out the slight bulge at the girl’s midsection, though she dared not say it out loud. Myrcella was lovely and strong-willed and even fierce, in her own way, but her changing body remained a sore spot. _That, at the very least, I have learned these past days._

            Oberyn had kept her in bed for nearly a week after Jaime had, she was told, carried her back to the Old Palace covered in mud and other substances she didn’t want to dwell on. The ordeal seemed to have blurred in her mind—a voice there, a flash of pain, a soft kiss on her lips, though she did not know from who—and try as she might, Sansa could not remember anything of use.

            _Not that he did not try_ , she remembered, frowning. Oberyn would visit her chamber every few hours, questioning her and fretting like she lay in death’s bed itself. One night she even woke, sweating and panting from a shadowed figure in her dreams, and saw a silhouette in the doorway, watching in eerie silence. At first she thought it was sweet, but too soon his words ran together and she heard only the flecks of annoyance in his voice, annoyance that she could not remember more, that if _only_ she could recall, the attackers would be caught. After the third day, Sansa had only allowed Myrcella entrance to the room, and the young girl had chattered away happily without questions or critiques or tense looks. And it was even nice, to hear gossip and stories and songs again. It distracted her, and Sansa was thankful.

            Sansa hurried to catch up to the still-twirling girl, and she pulled her down another path with a laugh. After begging and begging and even allowing him a few chaste kisses, Oberyn had granted her access to the gardens. Now the two of them giggled and whispered, dreaming up outlandish ideas for Myrcella’s upcoming wedding ceremony.

            “I will need to wear _something_ , though,” said Myrcella, slowing so they could both catch their breath. They had entered a small courtyard, and the sweet scent of roses filled the air. “And I must tell Prince Doran soon—he told me the seamstress needs a _bit_ more than a few days to put something together.”

            “I’m sure someone would be pleased if you found nothing in time,” said Sansa, giving the girl a wink. Myrcella gasped, smacking her lightly on the arm in horror.

             In truth, Sansa believed the wedding date was so soon as to hide Myrcella’s rapidly-growing body from the court, lest little birds fly back to King’s Landing with whispers in their ears. _There would be no need though, if it was_ I _in her place before the court…I am a wife too long wed to not be with child…_ It was something Sansa had thought too much of, while she laid in bed with nothing to do but rest. The thought made her unexplainably sad, but it made her wonder even more if Oberyn was disappointed…if _that_ was why he sounded so annoyed at times.

            Sansa drifted back to Myrcella’s voice, pretending to listen as she went on about flowers and cakes and singers. “I’m sorry—who in Volantis did Prince Doran promise to send for?”

            Myrcella did not answer, but a hand rested lightly on Sansa’s arm. “What do you want?” she heard the girl ask coldly, so unlike her usual self.

            Sansa turned, and her eyes widened in surprise before she steeled herself. “Ser Jaime,” she said shortly, bowing her head. He stood by the courtyard’s entrance, a pained expression on his face that quickly turned courteous beneath her gaze.

            “I am sorry to interrupt—I heard you had leave of the gardens now…”

            She raised a brow. While Oberyn sat by her bedside those first days, he always returned to the topic of Jaime—how the knight let them down, how he didn’t do his duty that day in the Water Gardens. How she was, under no circumstances, allowed alone in his company. He even warned her that he might try to find her… _I suppose that was bound to come true_ , Sansa thought, fighting the urge to bite her lip. “And here I am.”

            His eyes flickered between them. “Myrcella, if you would leave us for just a moment.”

             “I remember what you said to Trystane,” she sniffed, chin jutting out. “I didn’t like it, and I don’t think you should be talking to Sansa either, _uncle._ ”

            Jaime began to step forward, and Myrcella’s grip tightened, nails digging in above the silk. Sansa laid a hand over hers, and said calmly, “It is all right, Myrcella…go tell Trystane about this Volantene singer. I am sure he will appreciate it more than I ever could.”

            “I don’t know…”

            “Go,” Sansa said, forcing a smile. She patted the girl’s hand. “I will find you later to dream up gowns even better than this one.”

            Myrcella bit her lip, but after a moment of hesitation, she darted off. The trail of her gown swept against Jaime’s legs in defiance.

            “She’s running off to tell Trystane, you know,” said Sansa dryly. She turned away from Jaime, pretending to admire a frost-blue rose bush. _Like a summer snow,_ she realized with a smile, smoothing a petal between her fingers. _I didn’t know they grew in Dorne…_

            “Let her run. That boy wears more jewels than a princess—I would not worry about him.”

            Sansa pursed her lips, and her fingers slid down, lightly touching their tips to the sharp thorns. One pricked her, and it gave a little burst of pain. “I don’t wear jewels. Not anymore.”

            He sighed, and she heard his footsteps draw closer. “That’s not what I meant…”

            A bead of red grew from her finger, and Sansa stared at it with a curious fascination. It oozed into a heavy sphere, balancing on the tip like an overripe fruit about to splatter against the earth, sweet and crimson and wet. “Then what did you mean?” She asked suddenly, turning around and keeping her hand aloft. Sansa kept her eyes narrowed on it. The fat orb quivered, but it did not fall. “Why did you come to speak to me?” Her husband’s sharp warnings from before played in her ear.

            A hand closed around her raised wrist, and Sansa bit her lip as he spoke, trying to hold the drop’s balance. It was hard—his touch sent bothersome sparks up her skin, and with her eyes so focused, she could clearly make out the goosepimples prickling her arm.

            _It’s like that stupid game Arya would make me play_ , Sansa realized, chewing at her lip. _She’d throw me a slippery, iron ball and say, “Don’t let it drop!” as she ran about on the ice, jumping and flailing and screaming._ The thought of her sister made her sad, though, and Sansa returned to her overripe, crimson fruit. She wondered faintly what it tasted like before her mouth flooded with metal. _Copper. That is right…I have tasted blood before._ Soon the taste disappeared, and her mouth felt only moist. 

            “I think you’re in danger here, Sansa,” he began in a low voice. His fingers tightened, but it did not hurt.

            _Don’t let it drop, don’t let it drop…_ Her goosepimples seemed to double in size, swelling grotesquely. There was a buzzing in her ear— _the gardens are no fun until winter,_ Sansa decided between her _Don’t let it drop_.

            “The men that attacked us—they had help. Help from _inside_ the Gardens.”

            “Yes, all right…” said Sansa absently. Her finger really was starting to tire now…

            “Sansa, you’re not understanding!”

            “Hmph...” _Don’t let it drop, don’t let it dro—_

Jaime yanked her hand upwards, and before Sansa could even gasp in protest, he stuck the finger in his mouth. Soft lips sucked the bulbous drop off, and when he pulled her finger away, he kissed the tip lightly. Their eyes locked, and as if they both stood chained by horror or disgust or something _worse_ , Jaime held her wrist to his rapidly rising and falling chest. When his lips closed, a dark, crimson spot stained them at their center.

            With a start and a wave of heat and one last, torturous gaze, Sansa tore her hand away. The roses were suddenly the most fascinating thing now, and Sansa kept her eyes trained carefully on them as she spoke. Her eyes flickered back to him—he had not moved since… _since whatever that was_. “You are too familiar, _ser_.”

            “ _Ser_ ,” he repeated back, voice low and dripping with sarcasm. But he did not step closer, to Sansa’s relief—she did not know how her body would betray her next, and she did not want to find out. “Am I even a knight anymore? Or am I just the dog your husband tells you I am?”

            “He did not tell me—”

            “Then make up your own mind, Sansa! Am I some kind of traitor to Dorne, or…” his voice trailed off, softening, before he spoke again. “Or someone that carries a girl through miles of shit just because it is the right thing to do?”

            Sansa stared at her hands. Deep down in the crevices of her dreams, she had wondered… _hoped_ that Jaime had saved her for another reason. One she didn’t dare acknowledge without the warm cover of night. The blood had begun to clot at her fingertip, but it still shone wet, shiny. “I don’t know,” she whispered, turning to face him. Her brows knotted as she met his eyes. They seemed to glow from within, like emeralds sleeping restlessly on burning coals. _Beautiful,_ she realized with a pain. _And terrible._

            Jaime made as if to reach for her once more—for her hand, for the finger he had put inside his warm, soft mouth—but then he took a step back. Then another, and another until he stood by the hedged archway leading away from the garden courtyard. “I cannot keep you safe here until you do…be wary of them, my princess. Even the ones you think you know.”

            He turned on his heel, and the sun glinted off his bare blade, flashing momentarily in her eyes. Sansa closed them even though she knew he was long gone.

            “Don’t let it drop, don’t let it drop…” Sansa muttered. She squeezed her eyes tighter, and little orbs of light danced in the darkness. They were pretty, but even things like the stars didn’t look like that.  With a frustrated sigh, Sansa opened her eyes and gazed around the empty garden.

            _What a stupid game…a stupid, stupid game._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah so I couldn't stop myself from posting this right away...enjoy! I had a lot of fun with this one.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

The young prince unsheathed his sword with a flourish, crossed his leather-clad boots at the ankle, and dipped low into a curtsey more befitting a lady of the court than the heir to Dorne. A round of giggles blew upwards in the wind, and the onlookers’ heads bobbed with laughter. Trystane’s opponent drew his own, much plainer blade, and held it aloof. Silence stretched and the boys locked eyes until a girl cried out, barely able to contain her delight.

            “Fight!”

            In a flash of colored silk and silver steel, Trystane fell backward on his arse. Dust filled the air, and only a faint cry of dismay could be heard above the raucous laughter.

            Jaime snorted, wine rushing up to burn his nose. With a grimace, he wiped at his chin and shook his head. A smirk couldn’t help but find its usual place on his lips. _Smirking and drinking…is that all I’m good for now? They will soon name me the Imp, and my far-away brother the Lion._

Ignoring the fire burning down his throat, Jaime refilled his goblet from the jug by his side. He sat with his back against the hard stone, staring out at the courtyard from a window nook cut into his chamber’s wall. He had hated the room at first—the Dornish never rested, and they always were in the mood for a fight—but now, after two months in this hellish place, Jaime had grown fond of it. It gave a reminder that life went on _someplace,_ even if it was in the confines of a palace at the tip of the world. He could watch the young nobles picking up wooden swords for the first time, knights whose technique could use a Kingsguard’s hand if he ever dared to venture down, black-haired maidens who beat their suitors down with spears before luring them into a more secluded section of the yard. He could even keep an eye on his own daughter, now married and healthily plump as she watched her young husband challenge his friends to duels.

            _And you can watch her_ , a voice reminded him.

            Jaime took a quick swallow of the wine. It helped with the lump in his throat, but it did nothing for the burning. That would require even more of the Dornish red.

            Down below, Jaime could clearly make her out. She had a hand to her mouth and a spark to her eyes, clearly trying to avoid the pompous prince any more embarrassment from his loss. She looked at peace by Myrcella’s side, laughing and giggling with the other children as Trystane brushed himself off, a lopsided grin hanging from his mouth. Only children littered about the courtyard, basking in the summer day without cares or worries or fears. Sansa sat on the wooden benches raised slightly above the golden sand, with her back poised and a silver circlet weaved in between her fiery braids. _Theirs is a court of summer, and Sansa is their queen._

Jaime thought it was good for her, to play and laugh with the others in a way she never could before. Oberyn was gone from the palace more often than naught these past months, leaving his young wife with a chance to breathe for once. And when he did return, Jaime had noticed a greater stillness about her, a maturity that grew into place only while she sat by Oberyn’s side. As soon as he left again, for reasons Jaime didn’t know or care to know, a light always returned to her eyes.

            And Jaime had left it alone—left _her_ alone. He didn’t want to risk the Dornishman’s wrath lest he return unexpectedly, and things had finally settled down with Myrcella and Trystane. A pain went over him at times, a pain that worsened at night, when he had only his thoughts and memories to share his bed. But then dawn would come, and in her watery light, Jaime would return by his window-side perch and gaze down at his summer queen’s court, content at just watching, just waiting for now.

            A new squire stepped forward, mimicking the prince’s earlier courtesy. At that the children roared with laughter, and even Trystane’s dark cheeks found a blush. The other boy drew his sword, nearly tripping over his own feet in the process. Then the squire turned towards the onlookers, brandishing the blade like a flag.

            “For the princesses’ honor!” the boy cried to their cheers. Jaime craned his neck, expecting Myrcella to politely step off the make-shift dais. Instead Sansa stepped down, gingerly picking up her skirts as she moved towards him. She said something Jaime could not quite make out from his window, then leaned forward to tie her pale-blue favor to his sword in a display of great pomp and jest. When she drew backward, the squire’s face burned cherry red, and Trystane clapped him on the arm. The two opponents stepped back, and they began their playful duel.

            Jaime set his cup down, a bitter taste mixing with the spice. He knew it was all in jest, but it was just _something_ about their silly game that sent his stomach plunging. The way she tied her favor so sweetly about the sword, the way the boy blushed at her act…it made him wistful for another time, a time that had never even existed. A time when the young lion of Casterly Rock could beg for his lady’s favor, and she could step forward, the scent of summer whispering up from her flaming hair.

 

* * *

 

 

            “Please, my princess?” Oberyn leaned over suddenly, peppering her bare leg with kisses. Sansa blushed and tried to ignore it, narrowing her eyes on her sewing. His mouth continued to crawl up her leg, over her knee, up to the spot where her hem was bunched across her thighs. “Please, please, please,” he whined, playfully pushing the silk upwards to continue his trail of soft kisses.

            “Oberyen!” Sansa said, exasperated. The sewing dropped beside her, and she hastily drew her legs inward, yanking the hem back down to her ankles. She was propped up against the headboard, and her husband _had_ been sitting peacefully with some accounts on the other end. “I’m not a dog. Go fetch your own letters if you want to read them so badly!”

            Oberyn pouted, but it quickly turned into a wicked grin. “Fine…your husband who has just returned from week-long trip riding through sand-storms and bandit attacks will get them.” He shifted towards her, pretending to nip playfully at her neck. “You are wolf though,” he growled. Sansa simply pushed him away, shaking her head with a faint smile.

            As he padded over to his desk, Sansa let her eyes wander over him. Oberyn had returned yesterday while she was playing with the others in the courtyard, but they hadn’t been alone until this morning. _He_ does _look exhausted_ , Sansa thought, chewing her lip. His soft curls looked wilder than usual, and his jaw had grown dark with a week’s stubble he hadn’t bothered to shave off yet. Even the air about him tasted of dust and sand despite the bath Sansa had forced him to take last night. She’d sent him off from the courtyard with the other children’s silent eyes watching, trying to sound playfully commanding despite the annoyance building inside. The others, even Myrcella, treated her differently when her husband returned from his trips around Dorne. Like she was somehow too…too _queen_ -like to join in their mock duels and games.

            “Did my comment sting so badly?” He climbed back onto the disheveled bed, returning to his spot by her feet.

            Her eyes refocused, and she quickly put on a smile. Oberyn liked to see her happy when he returned, Sansa had realized. Especially after a longer trip like this one had been. He often spoke of how he boasted about her to the men he’d meet in castles and inns along the road. She didn’t want to live down to this northern princess with fire in her veins he made her out to be. And so she smiled. Always smiled.

            Oberyn began rummaging through his stack of letters, tossing some towards her to open. Sansa quite liked this part of her husband’s return—it made her feel useful, to help in this way. So much of what her mother and septa had trained her for was apparently unnecessary in a Dornish palace, at least so far. Sansa picked up the first in the pile, running a finger over its smooth seal. A hawk, slightly disfigured, was melted into the azure wax. Using her sewing needle to cut through the seal, Sansa quickly scanned the note.

            “Lord Fowler sends his congratulations to your nephew,” she said without looking up. The letter was sparse and courteous to the point of being cold, really only a mummer’s farce of an apology for not attending Myrcella’s wedding.

            Oberyn let out a bark of laughter. “The Old Hawk should have _attended_ if he wanted to remain in Doran’s favor.”

            “Doran’s, or yours?” Sansa teased, tapping him with her foot.

            He looked up from his letters. “You think I hold a grudge?”

            She gave him a knowing look. _I remember how you banished Jaime from my side for no apparent reason, even when you left me alone for weeks at a time…_ Not that her husband’s words had been entirely effective. A memory from two months ago swam forward, and Sansa tried to hide the smile that it brought. She had been in the courtyard, laughing as Trystane danced about with a spear in his hand, pretending to be his cousins. But just as soon as his jest began, a summer’s rain had broken through the swirling clouds, and Sansa had grabbed Myrcella’s hand to run for the palace’s cover. Just as they darted from their seats, lightening cracked and Sansa had looked up to see Jaime in his window, for a moment illuminated by the blinding white. She had chanced glances every other time they played in the courtyard, and every time she glimpsed the lonely knight in the window. She liked to imagine he was watching her, and the thought brought a strange swirling to her belly.

            Oberyn rolled his eyes with a smirk, and tossed her another letter. A thick black seal stared back at her, and with a curious frown, Sansa realized it bore no sigil. _A secret letter_ , she thought, just imagining the whispers it might contain. She broke through the wax with a finger, and it crumbled away, weary after what she supposed to be a tenuous journey to Dorne.

            Her eyes took in the first few words, and her heartbeat quickened. “Prince Oberyn Martell, I write to you from across the Narrow Sea—”

            With a jerk, Oberyn ripped the letter from her hands. He ignored Sansa’s confused protest, dark eyes scanning the letter in what seemed like mere seconds. Just as quickly as he had grabbed it, Oberyn folded it back up, tucking it into the pocket of his robes. He  resumed his reading of the other letters, casually raking a hand through his tousled mane.

            Sansa was not so quick to ignore his strange behavior. “What was that?” she demanded, trying to catch his eye.

            “Nothing.”

            “Oberyn…”

            He ignored her for a minute, then with a start, dropped the current letter in his hand. Oberyn rose and made his way to the wine jug across the room. He poured a cup, took a sip, and shook his head slowly from side to side. “I was not expecting…and so _soon_ …” he muttered to himself.

            Sansa debated going up to him, distracting him long enough to read the mysterious letter from across the sea. _He will see through me in an instant, though…even if we may relax in bed together, he knows I have not changed so much as to take things that far._

            “I will have to go away for a while, Sansa.”

            He faced her now, and something danced behind his eyes. Something excited…something dangerous.

            “You always go away,” she responded, trying not to let her disappointment stain the words. As much fun as she had while he took his trips, Sansa truly _did_ enjoy her husband’s company…too much time spent with the other, blissfully happy children left her feeling more lost than ever. It reminded her too much of Winterfell…of a home that now lay smoking at its captors’ feet.

            He walked back to her, setting the wine down on the polished night table with a soft _chink._ Oberyn drew her towards him, kissing the spot between her eyes. “And I always return.” With one final, feather-light kiss brushed against her lips and an affectionate stoke of her cheek, Oberyn swept from the room in a hast of dyed silk and an air of importance.

            Sansa sighed. She didn’t know what lay across the Narrow Sea, but she had a feeling her husband would leave her alone for much longer than usual.

 

* * *

 

 

            “Myrcella!” Trystane rushed forward towards the courtyard’s gates, his sword dropping carelessly into the sand. The ladies by Sansa’s side jumped up as well, though they stood back to let the prince go through.

            Pushing herself up from her high-backed wooden seat, Sansa weaved her way through until she saw the girl. Myrcella embraced her husband, red-cheeked and smiling at all the attention.  Sansa stepped around a girl with an “Excuse me” and a polite nod, then froze. Jaime stood under the gate’s shadow, his trained eye scanning over the courtyard while his hand rested easily on his sword hilt. Their eyes met, and Sansa’s heart jumped into her throat. Too quickly to appear thoughtless, she tore her eyes away and ignored the few stares she got.  

            _You should have known he’d arrive back with her_ , Sansa chided herself at her indiscretion. _Besides, you mustn’t look so flustered. He is your friend’s_ _sworn shield now, that is all…there is no reason for Oberyn’s wife to afford him so much as a glance, especially not with the others watching._ Myrcella had gone out on a day trip to the outskirts of the city, by the sea, to scout for a manor to share with Trystane. The girl had begged and begged Prince Doran at every meal until he wearily relented, and the easily-exited princess took it as a chance to surprise Trystane for his sixteenth nameday.

            Just as Sansa returned her attention to the rapidly-speaking Myrcella and her face began to feel cool again, the gates swung open. There was a strange yipping sound, a whisper of confusion, and finally, a gasp.

            Her husband strode through the open gate with a pure white creature nipping at his heels.

            _Lady?_

            Sansa blinked—once, twice—before realizing. The creature wasn’t a wolf, and Sansa wasn’t back in a field of frost-kissed snow. She wasn’t laughing with her brothers, and she wasn’t home. Tears stung at her eyes, and she wiped at them before they could fall. Her lashes stuck together though, and they brought a heaviness to her gaze that would not clear no matter how much she blinked.

            The crowd of ladies and squires _ooh_ ed and _ahh_ ed as her husband made his way towards her, pausing momentarily to scoop the dog into his arms. Sansa could just make out Myrcella’s fallen face before he blocked her view.

            “Do you like her?” he asked, ruffling the dog’s ears. She tried to wiggle out from his arms, and her wet, dark nose bumped against Sansa’s cheek.

            “Of course…yes, she is lovely.” The snow-white creature was just a pup, Sansa realized. She put on a smile as the dog sniffed eagerly at her hair. “But why…”

            Oberyn turned his eyes on the courtyard, and the lords and ladies stepped back automatically under his gaze. Even Myrcella took Trystane’s hand, leading him to a corner. Only Jaime did not move from his post. “Because I am leaving, my princess…I thought she could keep you company. Make you happy, while I am gone. She looks almost like the direwolves your family sews on their banners.”

            _He does not know…and how could he? How could my husband know I had a true direwolf…how could he know they killed her_? Sansa’s eyes flicked to Jaime. His sister had ordered Lady’s death…her beautiful wolf died just like her father and mother and brother at the crimson hands of a Lannister. “I—I am so thankful, Oberyn.” The words tasted false, but Sansa knew she should be grateful. “I will think of you when she is with me.”

            Oberyn pressed the pup into Sansa’s arms, looking pleased with himself. “What will you name her?” He asked, stroking the dog’s head. She nestled against Sansa’s breast, closing her eyes sleepily.

            Sansa couldn’t help but soften at the creature. _I will love her,_ she decided, pushing back the cold sadness threatening to spill once more from her eyes. “Her name is White Wind,” she said softly, pressing a kiss to the pup’s fur.

            “For your snowy home?”

            She shook her head. _For my brother…for the strength Robb must give me in this strange, lonely place._ “For me.” She kissed the wolf again, ignoring Oberyn’s puzzled look. He gazed down at her a moment until a hand reached for her arm.

            “I leave at dusk, Sansa.”

            She glanced up—just the tendrils of sunset curled out across the pale-blue sky. _So soon…_ She finally understood what this gift meant now. It was an apology. A sweet-smelling, snow-white apology. It glimmered under the Dornish sun like a murmur’s farce. It said how long he’d be gone…and that is was longer than she dared hope.

            There was so much she wanted to say— _Don’t leave me, hold me, take me with you_ —but instead she set her lips into a smile, and her words into song. “Come back swiftly, my prince.” She stretched up on her toes, brushing her lips to his. “May the gods go with you, and let you think of me beneath the stars.”

            Sansa pulled away, and the other ladies took this as a sign to rush forwards, cooing over the little pup in her arms. Oberyn stood there for a second longer, perhaps realizing her pain, perhaps not. She did not know, and Oberyn turned away before she could decide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Comments? Critiques? Let me know, and thanks for reading! You do not know how much I love this story, and how excited I am every update to share it with you.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

“What about you, Sansa?”

            She looked up at the voice, startled. Tyene’s tanned, pretty face stared back at her across the table. “I—I’m sorry. What about me?” She took a sip of her chilled wine to calm herself, praying the others would not see the tremor in her hand. The Sand Snake did not attend court often, and when she did, she rarely bothered to spend time with Myrcella and herself and the other girls of the court. _Tyene thinks she is better than us because she wields a sword instead of a sewing needle_ , Sansa thought, staring at the partly embroidered silks in her hands. _Like any of us had a choice_ …There was something else about Tyene that bothered her too, an unsettling feeling that jabbed and jabbed at her mind but refused to make itself known.

            Tyene laid her hand atop Sansa’s, smiling pleasantly and then flashing a knowing look to the other girls around the table. “If you are to busy worrying about your husband, Sansa, I completely understand.”

            “I wasn’t,” she lied. “Just…focused on this stitch.” Sansa fumbled with the thread to prove it. _I was thinking about him, but I know I shouldn’t have…_ Oberyn had been gone a little more than a week. Nothing to worry over. _Nothing at all_.

            Myrcella shook her golden curls sympathetically. “We can’t _all_ be as blessed by the Seven as Trystane and I.”

            Sansa bit back a sharp laugh. She was sure the girl meant well, but at times Myrcella could be rather childish. Trystane and his wife weren’t _blessed_ , they were two golden nobles stuck together to wed and bed and breed…the bedding part came a bit earlier than expected, but the fact remained the same; the gods had nothing to do with it.

            “That was actually what we were discussing, Sansa,” said Tyene sweetly. Her gaze swung to the other girls, who hid giggles and blushes behind their hands and silks. “We wanted to know if _you_ had any stories of your own…stories only befitting a married woman.”

            Her fingers tightened around her sewing needle, knuckles turning white as she her hand clenched into a fist. She wasn’t ignorant of the rumors circulating through the Old Palace’s marble walls. Servants and squires, ladies and knights, they all whispered behind her back, not noticing how high their voices carried in the cavernous halls. _She’s barren, she’s cold, she isn’t good enough for the Red Viper of Dorne…_ The last one stung the most, for even Sansa, who had lived so long in unfriendly courts, knew some truth rang out in that one.

            “I’m sure yours are more entertaining,” Sansa responded coolly, returning to her work. She felt the girl’s pale eyes on her, and the hint of a smirk came to her lips. For every rumor about her own bed, there were two more for the infamous Sand Snakes. Especially this one, the lovely, sweet-faced girl no man would dare refuse.

            A few girls giggled nervously. Myrcella took a hurried swallow of wine, the wet sound filling the silence. Finally it was Tyene who broke the tension, standing up and throwing her unfinished, poorly done sewing to the table.

            “Best be careful, sweet Sansa. Your bed won’t remain untouched forever, and then what will the cold, northern princess do?” She gave one last, scathing look around the table, though none dared meet her eyes. In a blur of golden locks and lilac silk, she swept from the room, leaving an uncertain silence in her wake.

            Tyene’s words rang in her ears as she bit her lip, trying over and over again to get the stubborn stitch right. She _knew_ Oberyn would likely want to consummate their marriage at one point, she wasn’t foolish enough to believe that. It was like Tyene knew something she didn’t, something that brought her back to the nightmares that had all but faded from her dreams…ones where thunder pounded at the walls, and a man she once knew stared down at her, flint-grey eyes dark with desire as he ripped the silk from her chest. Sansa shuddered, and the thread frayed in her trembling hands.

 

* * *

 

 

            Later that day, Sansa kissed Myrcella on the cheek before stepping down from the wooden courtyard dais. Trystane had called a mock tournament today, and all the children of the palace had crowded eagerly to watch.

            “Are you sure you want to go?” Myrcella asked, her hand catching Sansa’s. She gave it a squeeze. “The rain will pass, and it isn’t even dark yet. I’m sure Prince Doran won’t mind if we stay out a bit longer.”

            Sansa shook her head. The rain was coming down lightly now, but the swirling, purple clouds above said differently. In just an hour the storm would set in, rumbling and strong, and the other children would run screaming and drenched for the palace’s cover. They would grab each other’s hands, serving girls running with squires, young princes running with their golden wives. And they would leave her there, alone as the rain washed over her, alone to find her own way back in the magnificent, bone-drenching chaos. _It is better to leave now,_ thought Sansa dejectedly, _before they remind me of my loneliness_.

            “I’m feeling tired, that is all. Besides, White Wind will need twenty baths to wash all this sand off.” The pup’s ears perked up at her name, and her tail wagged. Sansa couldn’t help but smile—while she had been apprehensive at first about Oberyn’s gift, she couldn’t deny her gratitude for the furry companion. She was no Lady, but she loved her all the same.

            Myrcella’s brows pulled slightly. “Are you sure,” she began, dropping her voice. “Are you sure this has nothing to do with before? With Tyene? I know my good-cousin can be…bold in her words, but—”

            Sansa stopped her with a reassuring squeeze. “Do not worry about me. Worry about your foolish husband,” she said, pointing. Trystane was spinning an overlarge sword about with a grin, laughing as it fell back to earth when he raised it too high. “Or that babe inside you will have a father missing some pieces.” With that and a final, assuring smile, Sansa left the courtyard with White Wind trotting by her side.

            Back in her chamber, Sansa curled closer around the pup, allowing her warmth to seep through the thin silk of her nightdress. “Relax, my sweet girl…it’s all right.” Sansa ran a hand over her soft fur, but White Wind only tensed further beneath her touch. A great _crack!_ of thunder rang out, and her ears jerked upwards, her mouth let out a tiny yelp.

            Sansa sighed and tried to ignore it. It would be easier if she remained calm herself. White Wind had taken to her that very first night, a little more than a week ago. Now the pup followed her everywhere she allowed, and Sansa’s own mannerisms seemed to mirror her own. And with a great storm brewing outside…Sansa only hoped her usual response wouldn’t send the dog in a frenzy. _Even now, after many months for the most part safe in Dorne, I grow cold at the sound of thunder, at the sight of white in the sky…_ It didn’t storm here often, and Sansa hadn’t had the pleasure of facing one on her own yet. She thought back on all those nights on the ship, when she had been anything but alone… _when I had Jaime just beyond my door, not holding me or touching me. Just_ there. _And now my husband does not even allow me that…_

She hugged the dog to her chest, closing her eyes as the wind picked up. Rain stung at her bare arms, but Sansa didn’t dare get up to close the window. She didn’t want to look out, she didn’t want to see the sea burn white, she didn’t want to see the sky crack open, unleashing its fury in a fit of fists against her ears. Just imagining it sent fear’s fingers brushing against her spine, sending shivers to her neck and filling her veins with lead. White Wind howled, Sansa tasted blood on her lips, and the storm raged on and on and on, endlessly, terribly—she had to get out, run away, jump from her window into the whirling winds. _Just get out, get out, get—_

_Her throat wrenched sideways, and her eyes opened. A girl lay beside her, twitching. She rose, back curling upwards as she stretched. Water pelted at her skin, sharp and irritating, but it was no more than a prick, really. She was stronger than the female child beside her, stronger than the wind…Wind…The human called her that. How strange._

_A hunger filled her belly, but she ignored it for now. The child needed her more. Without a sound, she leapt from the bed, claws sliding on the polished stone before she regained her balance. As her dark eyes scanned the room, a scent filled her nose. A bird flapped helplessly against the curtains, stupidly trying to find its way inside. She jumped over to the animal, barred her teeth, prepared to pounce—No. There wasn’t time. Words drifted through her mind, clearing the way. Words she didn’t know, yet somehow understood. Get out, get out, get out._

_Yes, she decided. I can do that._

_A scent filled her nose. A better scent, one thick with blood and flesh. A human. A man. It drifted upwards from the floor, so close she could almost taste him._

_Racing to the shut door, she jumped upwards. Her useless paws only slid against the wood, not even reaching the place the human put her hands to pull it open. She tried again, and fell back to the hard stone. Her head swiveled back to the bed—the child whimpered, though the storm outside drowned it out, a mere note in the song of thunder and wind. If only the child’s voice was sharper, more distinct…_

_With a start, she placed her paws on the wood. They dragged up and down, up and down, scratching thin marks into the wood. Faster and faster she scratched until the sound screamed at her too-large ears, and blood dripped from her paws to the floor. Faster and faster, harder and harder, she scratched furiously. It wasn’t working, he didn’t hear—faster and faster—_

_She fell backwards in a heap as the door swung open. The human stared at her, smelling of anger and fear. She yelped, scrambling to her feet and shaking her head wildly at the bed behind her. He reached for her scruff, angry, hissing words leaching downwards. She threw herself from his hand, biting and yelping. Something’s wrong, something’s wrong, don’t you see?_

_The man paused. Then his eyes grew wide._

* * *

 

 

Jaime ran at the bed, ignoring the dog barking furiously by the door. As he drew closer, he could finally make her out in the near darkness—Sansa’s body twitched, and a moan escaped her lips. Her eyes fluttered open, revealing pure white, as he reached her, incomprehensible words tumbling out.

            “Sansa?” He shook her by the shoulders, and her eyes rolled _forwards_ , white spinning back to blue. The dog howled behind him, and Jaime fought the urge to whip his right hand back to silence her. _The dog knew something was wrong, though…_ “Sansa? What happened?” Her eyelids twitched,  and she moaned again. Without another word, Jaime bent forwards, pulling her near-lifeless body to his chest. He carried her to the open door, where he had been sitting just moments before, where his melting candle pooled warm light onto the floor. Peering out and seeing no guards, Jaime crept out into the shadowed hall. _Fools,_ Jaime thought bitterly at the lack of guards. _They think they’re so safe within their marble walls…even Oberyn, in all his hatred, could not stop me from coming here tonight._

Sansa’s head rolled back against his chest, words escaping weakly from her cracked lips. They glistened wet and crimson in the dim light, as if she’d bitten them in her panic. _And that is what happened…a panic._ When the storm rolled in earlier that evening, memories of their trip to Dorne came forwards. He remembered her fear as thunder pounded the ship’s walls, her tears as lightening tore open the sky. And he remembered how he sat there, night after night, just talking her to sleep against her door. Jaime’s feet had carried him to her chamber door tonight, hopelessly searching for a repeat of the past. He hadn’t expected to enter the room, nor to give her any real comfort… _the action was for myself_ , Jaime realized as he turned the corner. _I was selfish enough to think maybe, just maybe, she needed me too._ It pained him to know he was right after all.

            Using his foot, Jaime pushed open the door. He stepped inside the large chamber, noting how the large windows had been locked shut, how the desk and the half-filled wine jug and the neat bed had a lonely quality about them, as if no one had been here for a time. Jaime set her down on Oberyn’s bed just as White Wind slipped inside. The dog jumped onto the bed, spinning thrice before settling herself by Sansa’s feet. The tiny pup released a growl, then settled her chin between her paws.

            Jaime suddenly felt uncomfortable in the prince’s room—a room he apparently did _not_ share with his wife. He had carried her here thinking it might bring comfort…now only a coldness seeped from the pristine bed, a coldness that in some twisted way _pleased_ Jaime.

            _Seven hells…what have you done_?

            Jaime sat gingerly down beside her, smoothing a hand over her pale face. She stirred, and her eyes flickered open. Their color was stronger now, not the eerie white of when they first opened. “Are you all right?” he asked softly, stilling his touch.

            She blinked, and a look of confusion crossed her face. She motioned to her lips, to the blood pooling there. Jaime wordlessly raised his sleeve to her mouth, wiping at the crimson stain. Sansa’s eyes followed his hand, and her breathing calmed.

            “I don’t know what happened…” she breathed out. Jaime began to move his hand away, but the girl caught his fingers. A familiarity passed between them, disregarding all that had happened the past months. “I was—I was afraid of the storm. I had to get out, but I couldn’t.” Fear seeped from her eyes as she spoke, words clinging to her tongue as if they struggled to find meaning. “And then something _happened_ …” She glanced at the pup by her feet.

            “White Wind knew I was there,” said Jaime slowly, his mind whirling. “Like she knew you had to get out…” A memory from his childhood suddenly clouded his eyes, and Jaime dropped Sansa’s hand with a start. “Tyrion once told me of a gift the Kings of Winter had…a gift that connected a man to his beast, that allowed him to control the animal’s mind.” Jaime stared down at her, eyes widening. He brought a hand tentatively to her cheek, where he brushed at the coldness of her white skin. “You are a Stark…a child of the north. A _warg_.”

            Silence stretch between them until finally she pulled back. Her eyes fell to the white pup, and she stroked her fur, eyes opening and closing as if seeing her for the first time. “I have to tell Oberyn. He will want to know—need to know—he will need to come back at once—”

            Jaime stopped her, covering her hand with his own above the dog’s fur. “What?” he asked, brows knotting together. Sansa didn’t answer, just staring at her hand trapped beneath his. _Does she not understand? Does she not know what Oberyn will do?_ Jaime knew how the prince looked at his young wife…he saw the anger in his dark eyes, the passion for something _more_ , something greater. “Sansa—if your husband knows what you can do, do you think he will merely rush home? The Viper is a dangerous man, a man who will stop at nothing to get what he wants. Tell him about this, and you will be a prize beyond belief. A tool for him to use, a power for him to seize and control. And Sansa…” Jaime wrapped his fingers around her wrist, gently turning it so that her palm faced him, and her veins shone stark against the paleness of her skin. He brushed those curling, dark colors now, whispers of heat catching against his own skin. Her fingers curled against his own wrist, intertwining, touching, feeling. “You are a just a girl…I will not see you become his weapon. You are more than that. So much more.”

            Her fingers swept against his skin, softer and than a kiss. Long, auburn locks fell against his arm as her face tilted forwards, watching, just watching their slow, delicate movements. “I want to learn, Jaime…but I do not want to be alone,” she whispered, voice hoarse and strained. Her fingers stilled, and the heat blew away like steam off water, rising into the air, disappearing into the night.

            Jaime let go. He too had been transfixed by their seemingly insignificant union, their forbidden touch, now even more so, when he knew what he had to do. _I will help her with this…I will watch over as she learns, protect her as she wargs…_

            “I know, Sansa.” He met her eyes. “We will find a way.”


	15. Chapter Fifteen

            “Jaime, you _know_ I have to get back!” Sansa shrieked, trying to break free as he wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, spinning her back around. Her feet lifted from the path, silk slippers falling to the dusty stone. She kicked back, barefoot and shaking with laughter as he half carried her further into the olive grove. Sunlight flitted in, sparkling with dust between the trees. White Wind barked at her feet, and her plume of a tail tickled at Sansa’s bare soles.

            He laughed, twirling her once in his arms. “Myrcella won’t mind,” he growled in her ear. “You’ve been missing from their little court for longer.”

            “Yes, when they think I’ve been ill or in need of fresh air! I can’t keep saying I’m taking her on walks alone in the gardens anymore.” Sansa’s feet came back to earth and she turned to face him, frowning. “I’ve been using the same excuses for two months…someone is going to start questioning and Doran will find out and Oberyn will find out—”

            He cupped her cheek in one hand, and she fell silent beneath his touch. “No one will find out. And if they do, what then? You are the Princess of Dorne, and I am Myrcella’s sworn shield. At least until the babe is born, they can’t do anything about it.”

            Sansa bit her lip, but nodded. She had forgotten Jaime worried about their secret warging practices too, that if caught, he would surely face her husband’s wrath. For two months she had been ducking off to the gardens with White Wind by her side, and for two months Jaime had been sneaking off from his post as well, meeting her in shaded fruit groves like this one, tall-hedged courtyards, and at times, stony caves that littered the path from the Old Palace to the sea. Martell guards never bothered her, and Myrcella and the other ladies never even seemed to give her a thought—they had more exciting things to pay attention to than Prince Oberyn’s lonely wife. The golden princess never objected to Jaime’s absence either; she had Trystane to protect her, and apparently, foolishly, that was enough.

            Jamie’s soft fingers on her cheek brought her back to him. They had grown closer these months, closer than she dared to think too much on. _He is my friend_ , Sansa often had to remind herself. _My friend while Myrcella is busy playing at court, while my husband is gone._ Sansa had never truly had a friendship like this. It scared her at times, but the thought of going back to the lonely girl who spent her nights tossing and turning, wondering when and if her husband would return…that girl was someone she never wanted to be again. She knew theirs wasn’t a proper friendship. Her knight was twice her age, a warrior, a _Lannister_. His house was her enemy, his house had killed her father and mother and brother…

 _But am I even different than them, if I cannot look past that?_ Sansa scanned his eyes, their color deep, almost like a sea at storm in the shaded wood. _Who am I to judge this man, to say he is just the same, when I myself have changed so much?_ The young girl who had been a prisoner at King’s Landing was no more, be it from Joffrey or Cersei or Oberyn or even Dorne itself. And Sansa couldn’t help but accept that the golden knight before her, whose hand held her so gently now, whose arms protected her so many times, had changed as well.

            “But do you know what you _should_ worry about now?”

            Sansa laughed, trying to push away the thoughts. “How we’ll make it back to the palace without being seen together?”

            “I was thinking more along the lines of that little _dare_ you owe me.”

            “What dare?” she asked, feigning surprise. She crossed her arms and pulled a worried face.

            Jaime smirked. “Remember that time you promised you could make White Wind howl the tune of a song?”

            _And I did,_ Sansa remembered, smiling fondly. _Until the pup grew so excited she pushed me out and howled at the moon for an hour_. They had been practicing down by the sea that day, and Sansa had thanked the Seven no lords and ladies were there to complain to a guard about the noise. “And what would you have me do?” Jaime had sworn to take his revenge for nearly getting them caught warging, and apparently he wanted to collect his debt now.

            Jaime dropped her face, crouching down to rub White Wind’s head affectionately. The pup seemed to like Jaime even more than herself, it seemed. At least the knight didn’t try to push his way into her head. Jaime’s eyes scanned the wood until finally they stilled, and a wicked grin grew across his face. He rose, pointing, and Sansa followed his hand.

            Behind a thicket of willowy trees stood a wall of stacked stones piled waist-high. The sand-colored fence spanned east into the grove, sectioning the fruit trees off from the rest, then continued west for perhaps three-hundred yards through the gardens and a stretch of grass before coming to a stop nearly at the palace’s marble walls. It was a crumbling thing, weathered and long beaten by the fierce Dornish sun and the occasional, but vicious, sand-storm that could sweep across the city without even a whispered warning. And perched upon it all sat a ginger cat, ignoring the world as it licked incessantly at its paw.

            “You want me to warg into a _cat_?”

            “Can it be so different than a dog?”

            Sansa frowned, narrowing her eyes at the furry creature. _Yes. Cats are vain little creatures with their own opinions. Besides, I don’t have a bond with it._ She sighed, glancing back at Jaime. He smirked, and Sansa set her shoulders in response. _I suppose these past months have to have been for something…and he’ll never let it go if I don’t consent._ She turned back to the cat and closed her eyes.

            “I’ll claw your eyes out if you don’t catch me.” Before she could even hear his laugh, Sansa’s mind wrench forwards, leaving her falling, falling, _falling…_

_With a yowl, she landed on her feet, tail bushing upwards at the impact. Her ears twisted backwards, and she heard the human laughing. Don’t laugh, she wanted to cry out. Instead another mangled, scream-like thing poured from her mouth, and she leapt back onto the fence with a hiss._

_It was much easier to move than before—two legs were clumsy, and even the beast’s four didn’t move so easily. She paced on the rough stones, her balance not shifting once even when a stone loosened beneath her paws._

_“Sansa!”_

_She turned at the human’s cry. What a funny thing to call me…Sansa. I quite like that. The human began to approach, hand outstretched and a funny, cooing sound on his lips. A rumbling sound came from deep within her chest as he approached. Finally his hand reached for her head, rubbing and rubbing and…_

_A bird cried out, so far away the human didn’t even turn to look. But she did—she was off, legs pumping as she scampered along the stone fence, sure and steady and free. Soon the human’s laughter faded into the distance, and the palace stood before her—the squawking bird_ _stood before her, just waiting to have its belly ripped to shreds beneath her claws. Sansa ran faster and faster, beneath the palace’s cool shadows and then through the open window. She paused, sniffing. The open-air corridor bent right towards a solid wood door. No way through. But to the left…_

 _Sansa spun around, leaping down onto the polished floor without so much as a sound. She kept to the shadows, following the bird’s cries as the corridor twisted and turned. Wide, open arches allowed sunlight to stream into the hall, and more and more sounds and smells flooded her senses. They washed over her, overwhelming and powerful, and Sansa just_ had _to see what was out there. The bird could wait. Gingerly, she leapt onto the ledge—there was a sandy courtyard there, and then right across a row of open windows. Voices flitted through, and with an unbearable sense of curiosity, Sansa flew from the ledge, sprinted across the courtyard, and jumped into the awaiting window. The ledge was deep, and the high sun cast a long shadow against the outer half. Maybe these humans could use some feline attention…Just as a grotesquely sweet meow formed in her mouth, her tail bristled, and the sound froze on her tongue._

_“Tyene, can you be so foolish?” There was a slapping sound, then a hiss of pain._

_“Why do you care what I say?” a second voice sneered. “You aren’t my mother.”_

_Another slap rang out. “That may be so, but your father is my lover, and you have every part in this as I do. If the Stark bitch catches on that we are involved with him…”_

_With a start, Sansa recognized the voice. Ellaria. The name drifted lazily towards her, as though coming through a dense fog. She padded even further into the window, surveying the room with her narrow eyes. The two women faced each other, chests heaving. A bright mark shone on the younger girl’s pale face, and Sansa watched as she rubbed at it, scowling. There was a desk right below the windowsill, but she didn’t dare jump down to get closer._

_“I shouldn’t have told you,” Tyene muttered, still rubbing her cheek. “And I shouldn’t have helped you that day in the Water Gardens. The girl’s stupid, but with that knight always sneaking off with her…she’s bound to start asking questions soon. Count yourself lucky the bitch doesn’t remember a thing.”_

_Ellaria turned away from the girl in a whirl of deep blue silk. She approached the desk, forcing Sansa to draw back further into the shadows. “I wouldn’t have needed your help if my plan had worked in the first place.”_

_“And you_ really _expected those Greyjoy deserters to steal Oberyn’s precious bride?”_

_Ellaria’s head whipped around. Tyene held her gaze, a fierce glint in her sky-blue eyes. “You have faulty information, Tyene…I thought a girl like you could get any man to talk?”_

_“I—I can,” Tyene insisted. “I was told you and him hired Greyjoy men to attack—”_

_“My…partner may be mad with rage and lust, but even he cannot get those vile Islanders to bend to his will. Even with a pretty price. Those were sellswords my Oberyn slew for the bitch…sellswords whose captain now demands a heavy price for their deaths. A price they for some reason think_ I _can pay.” Ellaria turned back to the desk, bending low over the wood. The sound of quill on parchment drifted upwards, and Sansa took a step closer. If only she could see…_

_“What are you writing?” Tyene demanded, hands on her hips. She tried to creep closer, but Ellaria waved her away impatiently._

_“I’m sending you away for a time,” said Ellaria between the scratching. She didn’t bother to look up, though if she had, she would have seen the girl’s face burn even redder than the mark on her cheek. “I’m explaining to the cheap bastard the situation he got me in, and that you’ll be the one to pay the sellsword captain.”_

_“Me?!”_

_Ellaria smirked, pausing to suck the end of the quill. “Yes, you,” she snapped. “You know the kind of business he’s in—you’ll fit right in. Once the debt is paid, feel free to return. Or not. I don’t really care. You’re a whore now, I doubt it’ll matter if you’re an even better one when you get back.”_

_Tyene’s pretty face contorted into an enraged mask, and for a moment, Sansa thought she was going to pull a knife on the woman. Her fists clenched, then she spat on the ground. “What does my father even see in you?” With a nasty hiss, Tyene spun on her heel and swept from the room._

_Ellaria barked out a laugh, and set the quill back down. She gingerly picked up the letter, scanning it once before folding it in thirds. “Not a septa’s daughter turned whore, that’s for sure,” she muttered beneath her breath. Her head tilted to the left, then the right. It cracked, and the woman sighed._

_I need to get that letter—the thought filled her mind, blocking out every other scent and sound that itched at her so. Sansa crept back out from the shadows, careful not to place one wrong paw. Ellaria was by a bed in the far corner now, humming to herself as she folded rich silks atop the mattress. Slowly, Sansa stretched down onto the desk, placing one paw, then another. The letter sat atop the desk, and an inky splatter shined wet at one corner._

_Do not turn, do not turn, Sansa repeated in her head, though the words felt rather clumsy, like she didn’t quite know what they meant. She stepped closer until she nearly hovered over the paper, then achingly slow, she bit down on the ink-stained corner. The paper scratched at her tongue and nearly made her gag, but she forced herself to continue on. Sansa turned with it, felt its weight drag against the wood, making a horrible sliding noise she prayed the woman would not hear—_

_“Seven hells…cat! Shoo!”_

_The woman darted towards her, shock painted vividly on her face. Ellaria sprinted towards the desk and the silks cascaded from her arms as she screeched and cursed. With a muffled yowl, Sansa leapt from the wood, the paper nearly dragging her back down. Words flooded her mind—don’t drop it, don’t drop it—as she ran across the ledge. A hand yanked at the tip of her tail and a cry of anguish rang out—hers or the woman’s, she did not know—but Sansa was too quick, too strong, too free to be caught. She flew from the window and across the courtyard, through the open archways and down the tiled hall. And her parchment prize flew along side her, sweeter than any squawking bird._

* * *

 

 

Jaime sighed, eyes wandering around the grove. He was alone, save for the girl and her sleeping pup. “I didn’t mean for you to sneak off on me,” he muttered. Sansa lay in the grass, her head resting in his crossed legs. He gently swept a stay lock of hair from her cheek, watching, just watching as her breast rose and fell atop her corset. He should have been bored out of his mind, but in truth, this part was always his favorite. He liked the way she felt against him, warm and soft and lithe. And he liked even more the trust she so clearly held in him, to put her body under his sole protection as her mind wandered elsewhere. Sansa never stayed in White Wind’s body for this long though…it had to be close to half an hour now.

              _Where would she run off to as a cat?_ he mused, smoothing the hair against her forehead. He let his hand wander lower, brushing against her cheek, feeling the soft breaths escape her shell-pink lips. _Perhaps she runs amuck in the palace halls, darting between shrieking ladies and shouting servants, perhaps even right through Myrcella’s skirts…_ His fingers lingered on her lips, and his held tilted forwards—

            With a gasp, Sansa’s back curved outwards, and her eyes flew open. Before he could even speak, she scrambled to her feet and almost fell forwards again.

            Jaime rose and whirled around. “Sansa?” He stood dumfounded as the ginger cat from before, _her_ cat, wretched onto the grass, hissing and spitting and snapping its jaws. It darted off, leaping over the fence before either of them could react. Jaime reached down to steady her, lifting her to her feet. A piece of parchment was clutched in her hand, and the color seemed to seep from her face.

            “Jaime!” Her eyes wandered wildly around the grove before settling on his face. “Oh, Jaime, it was Tyene. Tyene and Ellaria in the Gardens! She locked me in that room and Ellaria knows and someone else knows and the Greyjoy attack was a group of sellswords—”

            “Sansa, you have to slow down!” Jaime shook her gently by the shoulder, and he tried to catch her glazed-over eyes. “What are you talking about? Ellaria and Tyene?”

            She swallowed thickly, nodding. “I heard them, Jaime. When I was warging, I heard Ellaria and Tyene shouting. That day on the ship, when you stayed with me down below. It was _them_ Jaime. They planned it, to steal me away they said, to bring me to someone…” The words trailed off, and her eyes scanned his face before settling on his lips. “Why didn’t you kiss me that day in the sewers?” she whispered, voice cracking.

            Her words whirled through his mind—the attack, Tyene, Ellaria—but he saw only her eyes, he heard only her question. Then he remembered—when she had been limp in his arms, drenched in shit and helpless, when he had brushed his fingers to her lips and made a vow to keep her safe. “I…” Jaime found himself lost for words. His fingers knew what to do, though, as they raised up to gently touch her quivering lips. He ran his thumb over them, felt her shudder beneath his touch. She didn’t pull back, she didn’t break their gaze. She simply looked at him, lovely and pale, as if it was the most important question in the world. “I…”

            Before he could stop himself, his head tilted his forwards, and his lips replaced his thumb. He kissed her softly, tasted her sweet breath, swept an arm behind her waist to keep her close. And she kissed him back—tentatively, curiously, warmly, as if it was her first. Too soon her lips began to draw away, and she laid her forehead against his chest. Their chests rose and fell together as the sunlit olive grove came rushing in, and Jaime’s head came down from her sweet kiss.

            “The parchment…”

            Sansa’s eyes lifted, and he saw the crimson stain spreading across her pale cheeks and breasts. He wanted to touch it, to feel its heat seep into his hand, but Jaime held himself back as she spoke. “Oh…I—I stole this from her room,” she whispered softly, unfurling it from her fist. “She was writing it to some man, I believe, someone that helped her plan the two attacks.”

            Jaime took the paper from her hand, gently smoothing out the sharp creases. He held it aloft, trying to ignore the pounding in his heart, trying to ignore the swollen-lipped girl beside him he so desperately wanted to kiss again. He cleared his throat, and together they read the letter. As soon as the first words came into focus, Jaime felt a hand fly to his arm, and Sansa took a sharp intake of breath.

           


	16. Chapter Sixteen

Laughter drifted out from brightly-lit tavern, washing over him in a breath both salted by the sea and perfumed with lemon, saffron, and the sweet smell of what he could only describe as _pleasure_. It appeared as if every man on the whole island gathered here, with the violent purple sky stretching wide over all their heads, casting them all in its dusky glow. Lys was a beautiful city, a fierce city, and a dangerous city. Last time he set foot on her sandy shores, he’d earned a lattice work of silver scars to prove it. This time, if the gods were just, he would earn a silver queen.

            Oberyn turned, stopping his men with a hand. “Go,” he commanded the Dornishmen. He’d only brought a handful across the Summer Sea, but he doubted this Targaryen girl would appreciate an onslaught of armed foreign guards. It was her terms he played by now, her rules he must abide. It was her letter he kept folded in his robe’s pocket, itching against his thigh. “Find another tavern to spend your coin in. If the dragon girl does not roast me alive, I will send for you come morning.”

            They hurried off, and Oberyn found himself pushing into the noisy great room. Pretty serving girls drifted about the crowd, slipping past men and woman alike in swathes of airy silk with gilded trays and goblets in their hands. Fabrics and skins, eyes and hair of every color flooded his vision, and Oberyn could not help but grin. _Now if only one of them had silver hair and lilac eyes…_ There was one woman that fit the description, though her Old Volantene blood could not mask the olive hues to her skin, nor the strange language on her furiously speaking tongue. Oberyn caught the woman’s eye as he moved towards the back corner of the room, and he winked. She quipped back in that strange, summer language before turning back to the man by her side with an air of amusement.

            _We will meet at nightfall, Prince Oberyn_ , the queen’s letter had said. _In the tavern where you earned your scars._ He hadn’t questioned how the girl knew that information—rumor had it The Spider had travelled all the way to Mereen to whisper in the last Targaryen’s ear. He had some time before she might arrive though, and so with a wave of his hand at a passing serving girl, Oberyn settled down in the only available seat. A hooded figure sat across from him, back pressed against the lacquered wall and nursing a cup of their own. The rough-spun fabric of their dark cloak cast shadows over their face, and he did not know if they were friend or foe, man or woman. Not that it mattered—he was is Lys, sent on a mission to find the dragon queen. _It is time for a little adventure._

The girl came back, sliding his smoking fire-whiskey along the table. Oberyn drained the tiny glass in one swallow, grimacing. “Would you care for one?” he asked the stranger, setting the cup back down with a _thud._

            “Are you offering to pay?” the voice drifted back, soft and light. _A woman’s voice, and a young one at that…interesting._

Oberyn tried to peer under her hood, with no luck. He imagined her though, envisioned scarlet curls cascading out from beneath the hood, lovely sky-blue eyes glowing bright in the tavern’s candlelight. His winter rose, plucked from the red sands of Dorne and placed in this mysterious, foreign city for him to find… _But alas, she is safe within the walls of Sunspear, no doubt worrying where her husband has wandered off to._ He felt a twinge of guilt for not explaining his hurried departure, but when the dragon queen called, there was nothing more to be done.

            With a smirk and a wave of his hand, another smoking glass slid onto the table. He pushed it towards her, and small, milky hands emerged from beneath the cloak to grasp it. “I’ll always pay for a beautiful woman.”

            She scoffed, but brought the glass beneath her hood to take a sip. “You have no idea what’s beneath this hood.”

            “You’re right,” he admitted, fingers playing idly with his empty glass. The crystal still burned hot beneath his touch, as if fire itself had just filled it. “But I hear your voice, and I hear this city. And no offence,” he said, eyeing her weather-beaten cloak. “But you aren’t exactly nobility. So what’s a beautiful, young, _poor_ woman doing alone in a tavern?” Oberyn leaned forwards on his elbows, studying the mysterious woman. “How long have you been a Lynesi bedslave?”

            She seemed to find that amusing, and her laugh tinkled with a thousand silver bells. Her head tilted back, and he saw just a sliver of a strong, pale jaw. “Are you lonely, my prince, or just presumptuous?”

            He grinned. “Perhaps a bit of both.”

            “So am I. A man like you must have a wife…surely she did not send you to Lys in search of a warm bed?”

            _Surely not…_ Oberyn cleared his throat, straightening. “My wife is young and has faced far too much for her age. She does not yet realize the…possibilities I could show her.”

            The stranger tilted her head, as if considering him. Finally she stretched out one small hand, fingers curling slightly. Shadows danced atop her pale arm, warm light kissing at the darkness, beckoning, enticing. He stirred at the sight, all thoughts of Sansa gone. “I am a Lynesi bedslave, am I not? Show me these _possibilities_ you speak of.”

            She led him by the softness of her touch past the buzzing crowd, between the willowy serving girls, towards a door with a curious intention in her step. Her frame was small, smaller than Sansa, but still all parted like the sea, without question, without even a nod. _Do they know this girl_? he wondered as they neared the door. _Perhaps a famous lover, one that is known to lie with princes…_

With one hand she pushed open the door—with the other, she pulled gently at his fingers, drawing him forwards. To his surprise, cool night air washed over them, and Oberyn stared around the small terrace with surprise. “I didn’t know the pillow houses taught you to make love beneath the stars,” he said as she turned to face him. The thought excited him though. _I will have to try it someday with Ellaria, maybe even with Sansa…_

“They don’t.” Her voice bit sharply at the air, so different than the soft, sweet one from before. Slowly she reached up for her hood, wide sleeves falling back to her elbows. “Though I _did_ learn that skill elsewhere.” The dark fabric fell to her shoulders, and out swung a mane of silver hair. Oberyn sucked in a breath; he nearly choked on his own tongue.

            "You said we'd meet at nightfall... _your grace_." He bowed his head. _Oh she is good..._

            Daenerys smirked, then gestured to the moon hanging low above the sea. Its reflection rippled out, the sparkling, pale waters nearly kissing where the terrace met the sand below. “And it is nightfall, is it not?"

            For perhaps the first time in his life, his cheeks threatened to burn red.  _I told the dragon queen she was a whore..._ He had been expecting— _what had I been expecting? A spectacle, a flaming, fierce-looking warrior of a queen?_ The woman before him was every bit as beautiful as he imagined, more so even, but still her appearance struck him. With sparkling lilac eyes and a slight stature, she looked more child than queen. Not the girl they told tales about, the one who supposedly left Slaver’s Bay in a smoking rubble. _They said she emerged naked from the flames, and the people fell to their knees as if a goddess walked before them._ _But this…this is not who I imagined._ “I was not the one to play a whore,” he reminded her, mustering a smirk of his own, trying to clear his head.

            “Lynesi bedslave…those were _your_ words, weren’t they?” She laughed, flipping her loose curls over one shoulder. The dark cloak flapped in the light breeze, and he could now see the rich, pale silk peeking out from beneath. “But never mind that. Men have underestimated me from the day I turned four-and-ten and wed the great khal, to the day I left three burning cities in my wake. You have not been the first, Prince Oberyn.” She smiled sweetly, though it failed to reach her eyes. “And you will not be the last.” Daenerys gestured to a wrought-iron table set with a dish of vibrantly-colored fruits. “Sit. We have much to discuss.”

            Oberyn’s eyes lingered on her a moment longer, then he followed suit. “No wine?”

            She shook her head, and he noticed for the first time the silver dragon wrapped around her slender neck. Its jaws snapped wide, and he half expected a tiny flame to pour out from within its gilded teeth. “I prefer to have my advisors _thinking_ when they advise.”

            He tried to suppress a pleased smile. “I’m your advisor now?”

            She plucked a grape, rolling it between her fingers and avoiding his gaze with cool indifference. “Perhaps.” Daenerys pretended to keep observing the plump fruit, though her eyes wandered off to the gentle sea.

            “Was it some kind of test?” he asked finally, trying to keep his annoyance at bay. _I travelled across the Summer Sea for a girl’s games?_ he wondered as she stared off into the distance. _For a girl that does not even appear to be the warrior they claim she is?_

The grape burst in her hand, dark juice running down her fingers, dripping stickily onto her woven sleeve. She payed it no mind. “Does your wife really take no place in your bed?”

            “What?”

            She repeated the question, head turning as she spoke. Her eyes didn’t blink once, and a coldness grew in their lovely depths. “Well?”

            Oberyn set his jaw. He didn’t understand why the queen cared so much—he was here to form an alliance, not discuss the intimacies of his marriage. “No…she does not. Not yet, anyway.”

            Daenerys nodded, choosing a blood orange this time. She peeled it as she spoke, never looking up. “When I arrive in Westeros, I need friends by my side. _Powerful_ friends.”

            “Which is why I came. Dorne has always aligned itself with House Targaryen—”

            “And Dorne is a sandy, sparsely populated kingdom. There is no vast army to speak of, nor are there crops and stores of grain. You cower behind your mountains and pompous customs with no regard for anyone without Rhoynish blood. Is _that_ the friend I want to take with me?”

            He paused for a beat, then said slowly, “Depends where you’re going.”

            For a second, her eyes burned with anger, their color a pale pink. Then her lip quivered, her head tilted. “Perhaps you’re not a fool after all, Prince Oberyn.” With a smile, she set down her bare fruit, prying it open at the creamy white seams. “Tales of the undead have not failed to reach Mereen, my prince. It is the Wall I fly to, it is the north in all her wild, abandoned glory. I have one-hundred thousand Dothraki screamers, seven-thousand unsullied, a handful of sellswords, and three dragons behind me, just waiting along the Orange Shore for my command. Dorne will win me back the throne in the south, but that is not the only war I plan to wage.” She popped a slice into her mouth, observing him as she chewed. “Now tell me, where might our kingdom’s last chance at savior find a friend up there?”

            “Last I heard, the Boltons hold the north. The lords have all taken sides or fled to their keeps, and the Night’s Watch is supposedly in ruins. You’ll find no friend in the north except…” _Except if you put the Starks back in Winterfell._

            She nodded once, raising her sharp brows. “And _now_ we circle back to the topic of your wife…”

            Oberyn sighed, grabbing an orange slice. It burst in his mouth, sweet and juicy and all too hot for his liking. He swallowed thickly, and it slid down his throat like a stone. “I already told you my answer.”

            Daenerys chewed another piece, studying him. Her eyes had come down from that violent pink, and they now shone amethyst and bright in the moonlight. “You can tell a lot about a man by his bed, you know,” she began slowly. “Take my husband…he bought a girl, no more than a child dressed up as a queen. That night he took me. Then he took me again, and again, and again until I learned to change his mind. Even then, ours was a fierce marriage. One built on blood and lust, not love. I realize that now. Khal Drogo was a brutal man, my prince, and none knew it as well as I. No one else saw the bruises, the pain, the tears. And if they did, did any dare to say a word? Khal Drogo was a warrior, everyone could see that. If any one of them had _dared_ to look at me, they’d know I was his queen. Now tell me, Prince Oberyn…what will I see in your bride? What will I see in _you_?”

            “You want to base _our_ alliance off my _wife_?”

            She shook her head. “House Martell and House Targaryen have been friends for hundreds of years. We will stay friends for a few more. But it is not Dorne who will win me back my throne.” Daenerys reached to her neck, brushing her finger across the sharp scales of the silver dragon. Her pale lips parted, and her head tilted. “House Stark, however, has always looked coldly on my family. Bring Sansa to me, and I will decide if I trust her…and you. I will decide if she will be useful in this war to come. If not…well.” Her voice trailed off, and in the wavering moonlight reflected off the sea, the dragon seemed to snap its jaws in his direction. “There may be no need for Starks in my new world.”

            Oberyn’s jaw hardened. Daenerys met his eye, and he saw just the hint of a smirk on her lovely mouth. _This is the dragon they tell stories of…the girl who speaks of fire and blood._ “You would threaten my family?” he hissed, just itching to reach across and grab her pretty neck. Blood pumped furiously through his veins, and his hand lifted slightly in his lap, just waiting, waiting…

            “She’s your _family_ now?” Daenerys’s voice tinkled with laughter, soft and sweet and dangerous. “I thought she didn’t even share your bed?” When Oberyn’s hand rose to reach across, she stood and walked leisurely over to his seat, standing before him. _To make my job of wringing that neck easier,_ he couldn’t help but think. A hand played with collar of his embroidered robe as she spoke, and the other closed around his outstretched fingers, silencing them. Heat flood from her touch, and the anger in him settled to a simmer. “I do not mean to be cruel, Prince Oberyn…but I also do not mean to be foolish. I want to fly to Westeros before winter comes in truth, and I want Dorne to greet me. Bring me your force, bring me your wife, and we shall see what use I have for both of them. Is that clear?” She raised his knuckles to her lips, brushing them softly.

            “And if I say no?” he asked sharply, tearing his hand away. “If Dorne and the north do not come to your aid?”

            She smiled, tilting her head so that her silver locks tickled against his chest. “You have heard the sailors’ tales of me, have you not?”

            Images flashed—ones of fire, blood, and beauty. _Could it all be true?_ “They say you burned your husband’s body, then yours, then three cities.”

            Her lips pinched into a smirk. “None dare lie about a dragon queen, I suppose. Take a look, my prince. Take a look at what I have _done_. I began a child with nothing but a poisonous name and three stone eggs…look what I have done from _nothing_. I have birthed dragons into this world, I have freed millions of people, I have left skies white with ash where ancient cities once rose from the earth. Do you really think losing your help will stop me?”

            Oberyn pushed her away, staring out to the sea. “You know I cannot say no, that my house—that my _wife’s_ house _—_ will lose everything if we do not comply.”

            “Dorne has never burned.”

            He turned back to her, eyes blazing. “And she never will.”

            Daenerys took her seat again, bowing her head. “Then I leave you with this, Prince Oberyn—I have no need for maids of summer by my side, nor do I have need for Starks who would betray my house once again. Make your wife useful to me, and together we will take back the Seven Kingdoms.”

            Oberyn’s eyes drank in this glorious dragon queen. She reminded him of Sansa—paler than the glowing moon overhead, more lovely a girl than even the maiden herself. His eyes fell upon her silver locks, and he could not help but bite back a smirk. _Even the dragon queen does not always wear a blazing crown…not like my Sansa._ He knew this plan could go wrong, that he could lose his wife in the process… _but still…_

             A vision flashed before his eyes, of Sansa, flaming and powerful as she rode into battle by the silver queen’s side. Blood splattered across her milky skin, and her hair streamed out like a blazing banner in the wind. _The she-wolf they will call her. The Princess of Dorne, the flaming girl who won back the north._

“She will not disappoint.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To those of you lovely readers who have been rooting for Oberyn, I just want to say that this story definitely isn't over yet. Things are still going to happen that make these characters change and grow, so please, even if this chapter turned you off from him, keep reading. Thanks, and I really do hope you're still enjoying this fic!


	17. Chapter Seventeen

Sansa backed away, her hand slipping from his arm. “No, no, no,” she muttered. The trees swarm towards her, blurring into a violent sea of green and brown, rushing in, swallowing her whole. Her chest hurt, her throat burned, and her body seemed to drag away from her spinning mind, like an sinking anchor at storm. White Wind barked and barked, but no one payed her any heed. Jaime was saying something as her knees hit the soft earth, and his voice buzzed like a bee in her ear, too loud, too _much_.

            Two hands gripped her shoulders, one cold, one warm. “Sansa? What’s wrong?” he murmured, trying to catch her eye.

            She rocked forward, trying to loosen herself from his grip, but instead he lifted her chin. Worried, brilliant green eyes gazed back—the only steady thing she could see, as the grove had not stopped spinning, as her head whirled with memories of darkness and pain. “Don’t you see?” _How can he not understand, how can he not_ know _that this man…that this man…_ ”He’ll stop at _nothing_ , Jaime. _Nothing_ until he gets what he wants—”

            Suddenly she rose, stepping backwards and blindly away from him. A stone jabbed at her foot, but she payed it no mind. “I have to get away—if he tries again he will kill you—you can’t fight him, you can’t—”

            The letter fluttered from his hand as Jaime covered the distance between them in three strides. She tried to flee, but a tree blocked her path, slamming into her back. “Please, Jaime, let me go—I have to leave—” Again she tried to squirm away, tried to look behind her to wherever she must run. _Far away from here, where he can’t hurt Myrcella or her babe or Oberyn or Jaime…_

“Sansa!” He had his fingers at her throat, forcing her to meet his eye. They blazed a violent emerald—the color of the knight who walked the halls of King’s Landing, the man who so many years ago slayed the king. _Even he cannot forget the past_ , she could not help but think.

            “You don’t understand! He will come, he will kill you—”

            “ _Sansa_.”

            She stilled, chest heaving. She felt his hand at her throat, the bark digging into her back, the salt stinging her eyes. Everything settled behind him, and the trees became trees, the grove became a grove. Even White Wind fell silent. “You don’t,” she whispered.

            Jaime’s hand fell away. “Petyr Baelish is a whoremonger and a liar, but he is also a coward, Sansa. He knows he can’t get you here. Not anymore.”

            _He can, he can…_ When she didn’t answer, Jaime raised a hand again. She almost flinched, thinking he was going to grip her throat again. Instead he brushed the loose hairs from her temple, tucking them behind one ear. “What did he do to you?” he breathed out, searching her face.

            Sansa swallowed thickly, then forced herself to speak. “He…” She took a breath. _I have never told anyone…not Myrcella, not Oberyn. Her eyes would well up with tears, and then she’d pray to the maiden like a fool. He would drag up the past and paint it in blood…_ “I just want to forget, Jaime.” _I just want to be free from my nightmares._

His hand shifted to cup her cheek, and its warmth flooded with comfort. “Do you remember Lady Brienne?”

            Her brow furrowed. “The woman dressed as a man at Joffrey’s wedding?”

            He nodded. “Brienne escorted—well, kidnapped—me to King’s Landing after your mother let me go,” he began softly. “I smirked at her, laughed at her, called her names, threatened to kill her…everything you would expect from the infamous _Kingslayer_.”

            Sansa tried to imagine the man he spoke of. Yes, she had seen glimpses of this horrid knight—she’d seen it just moments ago, as his hand closed around her throat and his eyes took on a wild, far-away look. But to her, after all that had happened… _he is just Jaime. The knight who helped me, who protected me…who kissed me._ “You changed, though,” she said finally.

            “I realized one night as my stump festered with rot, as I sat in the baths of Harrenhal, that this…this _anger_ that filled me for so long was not because of Brienne or the war or even my family. And so I told her that. I told her how I felt, how this rage boiled inside me night and day, that it haunted my dreams and preyed upon my mind. I killed the Mad King and saved all his people, but did anyone care? Did anyone care how the _Kingslayer_ felt?”

            “She did.”

Jaime’s fingers brushed the corner of her lips, almost sadly, as if she were this lady he spoke of now, this woman who listened to the Kingslayer when none other would. “I told Brienne what happened that day so long ago…and then somehow, I was free. Free from that anger, that hurt…and Sansa, I do not presume to know what happened to you. But anger is just another kind of pain. And pain does not have to be felt alone. If you want to move on, you cannot keep it trapped inside you.”

            “I…” Sansa let her eyes wander away from him, taking in the peaceful grove. Her heartbeat had settled, her lungs no longer burned. “I was kidnapped by him,” she finally said, voice strained with the weight of the memory. Figures and places flashed before her eyes, too blurry to make out. There was the hull of a ship, a fat man slamming against wood. “I told the queen—”

            “I do not care what you told the queen,” he said firmly.

            Sansa nodded tentatively. Words tumbled from her mouth, the easy ones, the ones that did not hurt. And he listened as she spoke, fingers never staying from her face, just touching, feeling, with an intimacy so simple she would have thought those fingers had traced her cheek a hundred times before. Too soon her tongue began to pause, and darkness swelled in her vision. A storm had raged overhead that night—a storm, she now realized, that had become every one to follow. Her eyes squeezed shut, and her heart began to quicken.

            “I—I didn’t understand what was happening until it was too late. Until his breath choked against my lips, and his hands took and took and took…I screamed and he only hit harder, he only tried faster to rip the clothes from my body...” The words stuck to her throat, and she felt his hands again, felt the coldness, the pain. “He got away, but still he—he…” A sob bubbled up, and she felt Jaime against her chest, holding her there, smoothing a hand over her hair. Littlefinger’s touch was gone, and she felt only warmth against her skin. As Jaime held her for minutes or hours or however long they stayed in that grove, the memory began to fade, the darkness ebbed away until it was grey and watery and nothing but a memory. It was still _there_ , but different…

            _Perhaps I am mad,_ Sansa thought as Jaime’s comforting words reached her ears. _Gods, let me be mad if this is what madness feels like._ It was like a weight had lifted from her chest. It was like she was free, if only from her mind. If only for a moment, a day, a night, however long the feeling of just this man against her chest and nothing more might last.

            Her eyes lifted, and Jaime’s face swam towards her though her heavy lashes. And without thinking, Sansa stood up on her toes, brushing his lips against hers. “ _Thank you_.”

 

* * *

 

            Sansa padded over to her bed, climbing inside the feather comforter and wrapping it around herself like a cocoon. White Wind hopped up beside her, settling in the curve of her knees. Ellaria’s letter lay on the mattress beside her, soft and creased and too worn to mean anything, it would seem.

            Hesitantly Sansa traced the first words, her finger looping as the ink curled and twisted with Littlefinger’s name.  “You can’t hurt me,” she whispered. She tucked the letter under her pillow, then brought her fingers to her lips. _Not anymore._

 

* * *

 

            With a groan, Jaime eased himself into his windowsill, staring out at the empty, moon-lit courtyard. He could almost hear the children’s songs and games of summer drifting upwards, could almost hear their laughs and cries and singing steel. Or perhaps it was the wind. Jamie didn’t know, or care, anymore. Time in Dorne passed strangely, it seemed. Like it was cut out from the rest, a great chunk set to drift endlessly on the Summer Sea, luring them all away from the rest of the world. And Jaime bobbed along with them, riding the waves of borrowed time with her by his side.

            Jaime brought his fingers to his lips, remembering the taste of her lovely mouth, picturing the way her pale breasts swelled forward as her lungs sucked in air beneath him. It had been a mistake to kiss the Viper’s wife. A mistake brought on by the shimmering Dornish sun and the strange magic of this place that beat down upon them all. A mistake he would repeat over and over again. A mistake he should have done long ago.

 

* * *

 

            Sansa turned over, nestling her cheek further into the soft pillow. She could hear the water from her bed through the open window, and its sound washed over her, more gentle than the foam that would kiss at her ankles when she waded out, more calming than the crackle of a winter’s hearth from a time so long ago. Sleep danced towards her, and try as she might, Sansa’s body refused to give in. There was too much to think about—there was always too much to think about. Especially at night, when she had only her thoughts and White Wind to comfort her… _when White Wind is here, that is. Who knows why that dog slips away sometimes. Perhaps she howls at the moon, crying for her lost brothers and sisters…_

            “Sansa?”

            She rolled over in surprise. Golden light pooled beneath her door, and from it rose a figure silhouetted in the shadows. A figure she would know anywhere. “Jaime…what are you doing here?”

            The door cracked wider, and White Wind came bounding towards her, leaping onto the bed and nuzzling her face. Sansa couldn’t help but giggle. “She woke me up, you know,” said Jaime easily, shutting the door quietly behind him. “Wouldn’t stop licking my face until I followed her.”

            She smiled at that, smoothing the pup’s white fur. “You can’t bother him whenever you want to play,” she scolded. White Wind only panted more at that, rolling over playfully.

            “I don’t think she did.”

            Sansa’s brows furrowed as Jaime sat down at the edge of her bed. “How so?”

            Jaime ran a hand absently over the dog’s silky back. “White Wind has come to me before, but tonight…tonight it wasn’t her that found me. I think it was _you_ , Sansa. You slipped into her at some point.” He paused, meeting her eyes. “Can you not sleep?” he asked gently.

            “I…” Her eyes drifted over to her pillow. Just the corner of the letter peeked out, but from Jaime’s sigh, she knew he had seen. “It’s all I think about,” she whispered. “For four months, all I see at night is Littlefinger’s ships washing in from the sea, or his men storming the halls of the palace, choking me as I try to scream for help. Or their blades, dripping with crimson…” She shuddered, trying to erase the image from her mind. _It is your blood_ , she wanted to say. _It is your blood that drips onto my floor._

            His hand found hers, squeezing her fingers. “What would you have me do, Sansa?”

            “Perhaps if we sent the letter to Oberyn—”

            The knight shook his head, a bitter look twisting at his mouth. Jaime had no love for her husband, who had left four months ago without a word. “Even if we knew where he was, what would that do? Do you really think he would believe his lover, the mother of four of his children, would betray him like this? Besides, if Ellaria had been getting these letters in and out, the ravens cannot be safe. You know this, Sansa.”

            “I know, I know…but I feel so…so _helpless_ just sitting here.”

            Jaime drew her towards him, brushing a light kiss across her lips. The touch was simple, chaste, but still it sent shivers down her spine. _How many months has he kissed me like this_? she wondered as she pulled away. It was never more, never deeper than their first that day in the wooded grove. And with a twinge of guilt, Sansa hated that. She hated that this man would not give her more. “Look at me,” he said softly, tilting her chin upwards. His eyes burned a pale green in the moonlight, and the golden hair at his temples lifted slightly in the ocean breeze. “You are Sansa Stark. You are the north. You are Dorne. You are a _warg_.” His lips found hers again. “You are _anything_ but helpless.”

            For a moment their eyes met with an unsung longing and hunger, and Sansa swore she saw her own eyes, dark with _something_ reflected back. Then it snapped—with a gasp, she felt Jaime’s hands at her hips, pulling her flush against him. He was kissing her, kissing her deeper than ever before, and as their tongues danced and played their ragged breaths became one.

            With a start, Jaime pushed her backwards, her head landing softly on the pillows. She barely even heard White Wind’s irritated yelp as Jaime closed in over her, arms caging her beneath him. His lips traced her jaw, his hand massaged the tingling flesh at her side, and a moan rumbled deep within his throat.

            “Sansa…”

            She silenced him with a kiss, and shakily, her hands found their way to the hem of his shirt. They fumbled, slipped away, and then finally she pulled at the light fabric. With a groan, Jaime lifted slightly away from her, helping her to discard the cloth. With it gone, Sansa brushed her hands across his chest, feeling the soft, golden hairs, stroking the lean muscles that seemed to pulse against her palm. And he let her—he let her just touch, just feel and explore as his own hands did the same. Her skirts had bunched at her waist, and now a line of fire swept along the inside of her thigh, where his fingers brushed against the delicate skin. Her hand travelled lower, and he shuddered, rolling his hips slowly against her palm. The laces of his breeches strained beneath her fingers, and they paused, cupping the place she never dared to look upon, the place her mother and septa whispered of, but never explained. _You will know in your marriage bed,_ her mother’s voice said. _Never stare too long, or gods forbid, touch a man there before you wed._ But now she understood, as his strong body suspended above her, as his lips ravaged at her throat.

            “Jaime,” she breathed out, gazing at the man atop her. His hand stilled at her hip, and his lips parted from her neck. They left a pool of fire against the veins, and it seeped inward, racing towards her heart like a poison. A thousand worries flitted through her mind as he waited, ragged breaths dripping down to swirl with her own.

            This time he silenced her, and his tongue filled her mouth with an irresistible sweetness, a hunger, and a moan. Propped on one elbow, Jaime guided her hand back to his chest, and when it was there, locked into the burning flesh, he pulled anxiously at the laces. “Sansa,” he moaned against her ear. “We are fools.” His lips ghosted lower, lighting her rapidly rising and falling chest on fire.

            _Then let us be fools._

Time drifted away, and only touch and smell and taste flooded her mind. There was a hardness at her thigh, a hand kneading at her breast, the smell of raw, musky sweat washing over her, drowning out the sea-borne breeze that danced upon them both. He rocked against her, faster and faster and Sansa gasped at the blinding friction of it all. _We are fools, fools, fools,_ she thought as her gown came away in a flurry of kisses and touches and silk. Jaime suddenly pulled her forwards, and it was _he_ who lay beneath her trembling body. Power rippled through her as he guided her hips against his, as sounds rose from deep within her throat that made her flush a brilliant red. Nothing mattered but the heat rising up beneath her, the hand cupping her behind, the taste of him on her lips. He needed more, she needed more, and just as his hand reached forwards to guide himself towards the pulsing spot between her legs, she could not help but think of this madness with wild abandon. _We are fools, fools—_

There was a cry, and Jaime stilled beneath her.

            “What the…”

            It rang out again, a terrible, blood-curdling shriek from deep within the palace walls. Sansa’s heart thudded against her ribs, and the blood drained from her face. Jaime met her eyes. Whatever had been, whatever spell that had trapped them both in a frenzy of lust had evaporated, and Sansa suddenly felt a burst of shame within her belly. She tried to push it away, and she awkwardly shifted away from him. A hand covered her breasts as she gazed at him with a chilling horror. Suddenly there was a man in her bed, naked and glistening. The ocean breeze drifted in, cooling against her bare skin. She knew he hadn’t…hadn’t taken her in truth, but still… _Gods forgive me…_

            Another scream tore her eyes away from him. It was a woman’s, filled with blinding pain. And for one absurd second, Sansa thought it was her mother. A memory flitted before her of a cry she heard long ago, a sound of pure anguish as her brother came into this world…

            His fingers touched her back, and she turned to him. Their eyes locked, and realization passed between them.

            Sansa’s eyes widened, then together they threw back on their discarded clothes, threw back on their masks of golden knight and Dornish princess. As they ran from the room, blood pumped in her ears, and the sound filled her with only one thought— _the gods can forgive me later_.  


	18. Chapter Eighteen

Myrcella’s anguished moan sounded from within, and Jaime bit down on his cheek. He tried to catch Sansa’s eye, which she so carefully avoided.

                        _Six hours she’s been in there…_ Jamie rose from his spot on the floor, joints groaning in protest. From the window across the hall, he could make out a pale dawn rising above the sea, its dense, morning mists trapping the palace in a swirling cloud of silver.

            When they had rushed to the source of the screams last night, the Martell’s maester had emerged from the his daughter’s chamber, hands bloody but with a calm expression on his lined face. All thoughts of what he’d just done had vaporized, pushed back until he was certain Myrcella was safe.

            “She will be all right, my lord,” the bald-headed man had murmured at Jamie’s demand to see her. “The princess is young, and the babe earlier than expected. It will be a long and strenuous birth, but I have full confidence in both the mother and the child…you raised a strong one.”

            Of course Jaime had brushed the man’s comment aside with his relief, but he had seen the side-eye Sansa had given him, the burst of recognition quickly masked behind her pale features. She hid it well of course—she hid a lot of other things too, as they sat there, useless while Myrcella labored within. Jaime had tried to speak to her, but she refused to give anything more than a courteous, well-trained response. And eventually he had given up; for the last several hours, he had brooded in silence, listening to his daughter’s cries and watching Sansa’s face turn from flushed to an almost sickly shade of white. _Apparently she would rather make herself ill than discuss what happened in her bed…though I suppose I’m not fairing much better_ , he thought, stretching the stiff muscles of his neck.

            Jaime turned to find Trystane whispering with Sansa where she sat by the door. She had her back to the wall, her legs drawn up to her chest, and a pale sheen to accompany her anxious expression. _So the father finally shows up_ , he thought bitterly, turning towards the pair. “Prince Trystane, this _is_ a surprise.”

            The prince unwillingly met his eyes. “I had things to attend to, Ser,” he said, voice wavering slightly. There was a greenish tinge to his cheeks, and the boy looked like he had swallowed an entire flagon of wine upon hearing of his wife’s state.

            Jaime smirked. “Things like that court you hold in the yard? I would have thought you’d notice when your wife was so large with child she had to stop attending.” He saw Sansa’s eyes flick towards him, a look of warning plastered to her face.

            “The prince is here now, Jaime,” she said, giving Trystane a weak smile and Jaime a frown.  

            Jaime had to bite back his response, which hung dangerously from the tip of his tongue. _Do you know where I was, boy,_ he wanted to say, _when my sister’s chamber filled with blood and screams?_ “She should have family with her,” he said finally, imagining himself by Myrcella’s side. In his mind, she looked startlingly like Cersei…a woman he hadn’t thought much on other than in passing these past few months. Jaime shook his head, clearing his twin’s golden face away. “I should—”

            “I’ll go.” Trystane’s eyes shifted from Jaime to Sansa, then back to the door. Another muffled moan escaped, and the prince’s face grew paler. “I’m her husband,” he said decisively. He bounced on the balls of his feet, readying himself, then ducked inside.

            The door swung shut just as another cry went out. Jaime met Sansa’s eye. “Not a word.” Jaime swore she bit back a laugh.

            Only a moment had gone by before there was a shattering of glass, followed by a word Jaime had never thought to hear his daughter utter. No more than two minutes later, the prince stepped back out. He gave them both a sheepish look. “I think she wants to be alone.”

            An anguished cry came from within, and Trystane’s eyes fell to his feet.

            “Can you even hear her?” snarled Jaime, heat rising to his face. His fist clenched, and the stump beneath his golden hand itched. _If this boy were anyone else, I swear by the Gods I would cut him right down…_ “That is your _wife_ bringing your _child_ into the world, and you refuse to stand beside her because the sight of her blood makes you sick?” He stepped forwards, and the prince’s eyes shone with fear.

            “The maester says she will be fine, I just cannot—cannot bear to—” Trystane’s face seemed to turn three shades paler, and his lips bulged out. “Excuse me,” he muttered before turning on his heel. The boy fled down the hall, and as he turned the corner, the unmistakable sound of retching drifted towards them.

            After a string of curses that turned Sansa’s cheeks red, Jaime stepped back to his spot across the door. He stared at it as Myrcella’s cries grew worse and more frequent, fuming at his daughter’s fool of a husband and his inability to hold his daughter’s hand and the memories of last night that nagged and nagged at his brain. _Sansa, what have we done…_

            It was her voice that snapped him out of his swirling mind. “I know you want to be in there,” she said softly. Jaime met her eyes, setting his jaw.

            “I don’t think that would be proper.”

            She laughed, light-hearted and lovely. Jaime saw the circles under her eyes, the messiness of her hair, and with a start he realized she had stayed up the entire night not just for Myrcella, but for him as well.

            “Is anything in this place?” she asked, rising from her spot on the floor. She brushed at the unforgiving creases in her skirt, then approached him. A hand met his cheek, and Jaime leaned into her warmth. “Go be with her. Hold her hand and let her know it will be ok…the Gods know you aren’t helping anyone out here brooding in silence. I can do that all on my own.” She smiled faintly, then nodded to the door. “Go.”

            Jaime drank in her sky-blue eyes. He memorized the feel of her palm on his cheek. It was like last night had been pushed aside for now, and the consequences of their passion were set aside for a greater cause, a cause which Jaime suspected Sansa knew much more of then she let on. Sansa was giving him a door out of their confusion, if only for a day or week or however long until they were forced to confront the mess they had made. And the door was his daughter, and now, he realized with a shock, his _grandchild._

 

* * *

 

 

            _She is lovelier than ever_ , Oberyn decided as he turned the corner. His wife stood alone with her back towards him, staring off through a window. As he neared and his footsteps rang down the marble hall, she turned in a flurry of silk and auburn curls. There was a wildness about her—perhaps it was the tousled hair brushing past her waist, or the creases in her skirts that hinted so wickedly of behaviors he knew his wife would never even dream of doing. The laces of her bodice had been hastily tied, and the tops of her breasts teased him below. _Gods, she is a vision…the dragon queen was a fool to ever question her._

            “Oberyn!” Sansa made as if to run forwards before pausing, a startled expression taking over her face.

            He was close enough now to see the circles under her eyes, the faint sheen across her temple. When he had arrived in Sunspear, the castellan had informed him of Myrcella’s early labor, and now Oberyn wondered if Sansa had been alone all night, waiting anxiously outside her door. Something inside him twinged suspiciously at her reaction, but he supposed she was just shocked to see him. “Come here,” he said, taking her hand and drawing her towards him. He kissed her forehead, then tilted her chin up to take her lips. For a second her mouth tensed before relinquishing to his, soft and sweet and lovely. Oberyn took this as a good sign, and hungrily pulled her closer. Their kissed deepened, and Oberyn could not help but smirk as he pulled away. _I leave for months, and my wife is more pleased than ever to see me…_

            “I—I was not expecting you,” she breathed out, gazing up at him. “You never said…”

            “I know,” he murmured, cupping her cheek in his hand. “And for that I am sorry—I should have explained more before I left.” He paused, tracing the curve of her cheek with his thumb. “But I am sure you will forgive me when you learn of my reasons…” His voice trailed off as the door behind them swung open, and they both turned at the sound.

            If he hadn’t been told beforehand, Oberyn never would have known who emerged from the birthing chamber. This girl was almost sickly pale, with golden hair plastered messily against her forehead. Her shoulders sagged and her legs seemed to tremble beneath her weight, but still a wide smile found its way to her face. It widened as the white bundle in her arms cried out, and Oberyn could not help but grin.

            “Oh, Myrcella!” Sansa gripped Oberyn’s hand as if holding herself back as the princess stepped from the room, a weary maester trailing behind.

            “Seven hells…” he heard a voice breath out. Oberyn turned to find that his nephew had arrived, and the boy now bore a look of shock and awe. Oberyn clapped him on the back, urging him forwards towards his child.  He noticed that Jaime too had slipped into the hall, his eyes glazed as they took in the newborn babe. _They cannot say the Kingslayer does not love his family_ , Oberyn thought with a smile. Even the Red Viper of Dorne had to smile in a moment like this.

            Myrcella took a few shaky steps forwards towards Trystane, then to Oberyn’s surprise, she turned to Sansa. He released Sansa’s hand, and watched as the princess embraced her with one arm. Tears of joy streamed down both the girls’ faces.

            “It’s a girl,” Myrcella whispered as she pulled away. Beside him, Trystane let out a breath. “And Sansa…Sansa you have been the sister I never had…the mother I never had.” The princess took her hand, then tilted her arms. Oberyn could now see the babe’s face, could make out the brilliant emerald eyes of her mother and the olive skin of her father. “Her name is Ceransa,” she said through her tears and smiles. “For both of you.”

            “Myrcella, she is beautiful. I…I don’t know what to say.” Her lips formed the name, curving prettily as she repeated it back. “ _Ceransa_ …”

            Oberyn stepped back as the two girls hugged and cried and kissed the babe. Eventually Trystane joined them, his eyes growing wide as Myrcella put his daughter in his arms. As Oberyn watched, a strange feeling settled in his stomach, one that twisted as Sansa’s tear-stained face swam into view, the child snug in her arms. It was something he hadn’t thought much of…something that in truth never crossed his mind. _I have Ellaria and my eight daughters…am I to give one to Sansa as well?_ The thought drifted across his mind, playing over and over again. _And now I cannot even consider the option, not with the dragon queen’s war on the horizon. If it is motherhood my wife wants, it must wait. It must wait until she rides into battle by Daenerys’ side, and the kingdoms drop to their knees. Only then could we consider a child…_

Resting a hand on her shoulder, Oberyn placed a kiss on Sansa’s cheek. She turned to him, smiling like he had never seen her before. “Congratulations, Myrcella. Ceransa is beautiful…but who would expect less with a mother as lovely as yourself?”

            The princess blushed at his compliment “Thank you, good-uncle,” she said, not looking up from the sleeping babe in her arms. “The Gods have blessed Trystane and me with her.”

            Oberyn smiled, then turned Sansa towards him. “I must change from these dirty traveling robes…?” He was about to ask her to join him later, then thought better of it. _I can tell her of the dragon queen tomorrow…_

            Her eyes flicked away before they met his. She nodded, and Oberyn kissed her cheek again before heading off. As he stepped away, he swore he caught the Kingslayer catch her eye, but too soon Trystane stepped in his view. Oberyn shook his head as he made his way down the hall. _It’s because of the babe that she’s acting so strangely,_ he told himself as he climbed the steps to his chamber. _Not that I blame her—who would_ want _to share a child’s name with that Lannister bitch_ …

 

* * *

 

 

            Her fingers curled around the handle, then froze. The coolness of the metal seeped into her hand, racing through her veins to her heart. She closed her eyes and took a breath. She almost had to laugh at herself—how long had she been standing outside her husband’s chambers like a lamb caught beneath the butcher’s glinting knife?

            _On second thought…probably not the best metaphor._

Sansa’s fingers lifted, and she bit her tongue. Her footsteps echoed on the marble as she paced, _one-two,_ turn, _one-two_ , turn. Even her heart beat to the rhythm, though both grew more frantic the longer she stepped between the same two tiles.

            It was nightfall now, and after a dinner with Myrcella and Trystane, Sansa had forced herself to climb the steps to Oberyn’s room. All last night and today guilt at what she had done with Jaime plagued her, poking incessantly at her mind until she relented. Until she decided what must be done. _If I was a fool then, what am I now? A confused fool…are all fools not confused?_ Her snort of laughter hung in the air, taunting, mocking. Sansa stopped dead in her tracks and turned back towards the door. Her spine straightened, and her lungs filled with air.

            The door swung open, and only after she registered Oberyn’s surprised voice did the breath escape.

            Forcing her hands to remain still, Sansa stepped inside. Her husband sat at his desk with a goblet of wine and a stack of letters. Absently, Sansa wondered if any were as important as the one from across the Narrow Sea. Surely, Oberyn could wait a few days before leaving her again… _not that you didn’t end up enjoying that time,_ a voice nagged in her ear. _With White Wind and Myrcella and Jaime…_

            “Sansa?”

            She blinked, realizing he had asked her a question. Hurriedly she closed the door behind her, then approached. He stood and greeted her with a chaste kiss. “I…” Suddenly the words she had planned fell to sand on her tongue. “I…”

            “Is it the babe? Is that why you have been so…distant since I arrived?”

            She frowned, surprised. “The babe?”

            “I know it must be hard to see Myrcella so happy, but Sansa, there is much more I want for you—”

            “It’s not.” Sansa took a breath, then stepped back. _He thinks I am jealous_ , she realized, gazing up at his dark eyes. _If only things were that simple…_ “I am just happy for her, that’s all…there is another reason I wanted to see you tonight.” As his brows pulled together in confusion, Sansa’s trembling fingers found the laces of her gown. She pulled at them, and inch by inch the bodice loosened, her breasts spilled out. A chill ran its finger down her spine, but Sansa forced herself continue. Slowly she let the silk slide past her waist, past her hips, until it pooled beneath her feet. She stepped out and met her husband’s eyes.

            Oberyn stared at her, eyes darkening as they roamed her body, drinking in what was rightfully his, what she now presented like a gift. _Only he doesn’t know that…he doesn’t know what I’ve done, that this is an apology. That this is a way to convince myself that it is my husband my heart years for…that it is my husband’s touch my body craves._

            “Are you sure?” he asked finally, voice thickening. He stepped towards her, and in the candlelight his eyes glinted hungrily. A hand reached forwards, brushing a lock from her shoulder.

            Sansa shivered beneath his fingers, but still she forced herself to hold his gaze. _It’s you I want, it has to be…_ She nodded as the guilt boiled up in her stomach. Oberyn was handsome and strong and her _husband_... _and I have no reason to want another._ “Would you make your wife wait any longer?”

            And she could not help but think, as her husband’s hands curved around her bottom and his lips found the tip of one swollen, tingling breast, that the gods would need to forgive her for the second night in a row.

           

* * *

 

 

            Oberyn grunted with satisfaction as his seed spilled inside his wife, and his lips ghosted over the hallow of her glistening throat. He felt her clench around him, one hand clutching the silk of their comforter and the other curved into his back, nails digging in as her eyes closed in pleasure. Slowly he drew out of her sweet flower, careful as to not hurt her more. He knew that no matter how much his little wife moaned and sighed his name, a woman’s first time was not without discomfort.

            _Not that it showed_ , he thought as he fell onto his back, panting as his eyes wandered over the silks of their canopy. For the moment he had taken her young, lithe body into his arms to the moment he entered her, a passion had rippled through their bodies, hard and fast and overwhelming. He had brought her pleasure like only he could, and in turn she had blinded his vision, lit every nerve on fire. “Oberyn, Oberyn,” she had moaned as he thrust inside her, almost to a point the breathless cries sounded false. And he whispered her name back, whispered it as his body took over, as the rest of the world fell away and only the two of them remained. _Look at my wife, dragon queen…is this the girl you would dare speak down on?_

            With his heart steadying, Oberyn rolled over onto one side. Sansa lay on her stomach, her firm bottom curving up into the air and her tousled curls fanning out across her back.

            Oberyn let his hand wander over her tender flesh as his eyes drank in her temptingly poised body. “Who are you?” he murmured as his hand smoothed upwards, clenching around the soft skin at her waist. The words danced across his tongue as his fingers danced across her back, achingly slow, burning with fire.

            “Sansa.”

            “But _who are you?_ ” he asked again, growling against her jaw. He ran a hand lower again, past the base of her spine, capturing the sweet flesh below in his grip. She seemed to shiver, and a look passed over her eyes when they turned to him.

            “The Princess of Dorne.”

            Oberyn took her lips, smiling. He then rolled her gently away from him and gingerly climbed off the bed. “ _My_ Princess of Dorne.” He gave one last look to her, this stunning creature resting on her stomach, pale skin shining back at him, slickened with the sweat of their love making. “I’ll draw a bath for us,” he called back as he padded away on the thick carpet, a grin plastered helplessly on his face. He would tell her of Daenerys in the morning, for now he wanted nothing more than to finally enjoy the pleasures of his wife as the sky faded from purple to black to blue.

            _My princess…and now my northern queen._

 

* * *

 

 

            She heard the gush of water as it filled the copper tub, and her lungs collapsed beneath a sob. Sansa pressed her face into a pillow, trying to muffle her cries. The fabric grew wet beneath her cheek.

            There she lay, naked and shivering and sobbing with a tenderness between her legs and a stickiness between her thighs. It hurt but not enough—not enough to answer for the wetness spilling down her cheeks and stinging her eyes with salt. It was something else that ripped through her chest now, clawing its way out as her husband stood just in the other room. Something messy and raw, something that blurred her mind more than her vision, something that choked her words more than her tongue.

            Oberyn had begun slowly until she first whispered his name. He had been kind until she said the second she could think of…what came to her mind first, as his hips ground against hers and his hands kneaded at her breasts, she didn’t dare repeat, even in her head. Then he had changed—snapped—as if his name on her lips was an invitation to the beast that lived within every man. His motions became rough, his moans became deep, and a dark hunger took over his eyes. She didn’t know if it had been kind—what _did_ she know about any of this?—but she knew it was not what she expected…was not what she was ready for.

            Their lovemaking did not make her feel better. It did not give her answers. It did not take away the guilt.

            Her body shook, and fire burned in her lungs.

            _It has made me more lost than ever._

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a tricky one to write, but I hope you guys enjoyed it. Please let me know your thoughts, and thanks for reading!


	19. Chapter Nineteen

            Sansa let her hand trail loosely over White Wind’s fur as she gave the squire her courtesies. He grinned as he stepped away, a shock of jet-black hair falling over his face. The clash of steel began, and only then did Sansa roll her eyes.

            She was sick of it—sick of playing court during the day, sick of greeting her husband at night as he returned, covered in sweat and dust and tales of this dragon queen. Myrcella no longer spent her days in the courtyard, claiming the strong Dornish sun would be “far too much” for her half-Dornish child. Even Jaime kept his distance. _He has Ceransa now…why would he need me?_ The thought made her belly churn with guilt, and she focused her eyes ahead of her, not really seeing the blur of steel and silk against the reddening sky.

            Only Oberyn seemed to want anything to do with her now, though it brought no more happiness than these mock duels in the courtyard did. He kept whispering of this alliance with the last Targaryen, that Sansa needed to be ready when they met. He talked of war and dragons, of the north and Dorne, and he said it all as she lay beside him at night, trapped in a cage of soft kisses and breathless whispers. And each time he took her, each time her body responded to his hands and lips and tongue, she was moving further and further from whatever feelings she once had for Jaime. They hadn’t developed more for Oberyn either, but did it even matter? It didn’t hurt anymore, and for the first time in her life, Sansa learned that pleasure could dull pain.

            Something bit into her finger, and Sansa looked down to see White Wind bare her teeth. The pup circled on the spot, settling further away from her in Myrcella’s abandoned chair. “Sorry,” she muttered, pulling her hand away. Even her dog wasn’t the same anymore. Their bond wasn’t as strong, as Sansa rarely got a chance to practice warging without Jaime’s help. _I’ll try tonight,_ she thought, rubbing the pup’s ears. White Wind closed her eyes affectionately, forgetting her earlier outburst. _We’ll run through the gardens, just as we used to with Jaime._ The pup sighed, burrowing her head between her paws.

             “Are you all right, princess?”

            Sansa glanced up to find Trystane standing before her. His chest heaved, and a bead of sweat ran down his temple. Judging from the light snickers from the other onlookers, the prince had lost to the squire. “Of course,” she answered, giving him a smile.

             “It is just—Darvin here noticed you hadn’t cheered as he won the duel for you. If you would rather be elsewhere…” The squire, Darvin apparently, blushed as her eyes travelled over to him.

            She looked around. To her surprise, the others were all standing now. And all had their eyes on her. _Had I really been so distant?_ Sansa bit her lip. She had to be careful—if the other children didn’t care for her anymore, she’d have nothing to do all day but wait in the palace, sewing and reading and dwelling on everything she didn’t want to think about. They would never say it to her face, but Sansa knew what their looks and whispers meant. _Oberyn’s wife has no place in a silly court like this._ They would never dare say a thing about Trystane, though. There’d never be a hint of gossip at the new father who would rather play at swords than spend time with his wife and babe. He was a prince, and she was a prince’s wife. They called her the Princess of Dorne, but Sansa now knew what the title meant. It was a gilded cage, and she was the pretty little song-bird within. Even here, in a land so removed from the rest of the kingdoms, a princess’s was inside its golden walls.

            Her eyes returned to the squire. “Of course…Darvin,” she said finally. The boy’s cheeks grew redder. “A fine battle won, I am sure. But if you will excuse me, I believe my lord husband will call for me soon.” _Time to fly back to your cage_. She rose, kissing Trystane’s cheek as she made her way from the courtyard. White Wind trotted behind her, tail wagging and oblivious to the situation. _If only I was like her_ , Sansa thought glumly as she passed into the palace. She could feel their eyes on her backs, hear the first notes of gossip. _I wouldn’t care what anyone thinks._

            As she wandered down the palace halls, Sansa peered out a passing window. The sun hung heavy and red in the sky, and its glow cast shadows on the marble walls. Oberyn wouldn’t be back until nightfall, but she didn’t think she could stand another moment in the courtyard. She was more alone there than in the canorous hallways with nothing but White Wind’s panting to keep her company.

            Two guards stepped aside as she began her ascent of the Tower of the Sun. Up and up the steps winded, until finally she reached her own chambers. Sansa preferred them to her husband’s, though her balcony gave no view of the sea. She went to it now, staring out at the city. Sunspear was as lovely as the night she arrived. The bazaars glittered with torchlight, women’s songs drifted up from the streets, and the smell of exotic spices still carried up in the gentle breeze. It was beautiful and golden, and now Sansa understood the price she paid to look down upon it all.

             “We can go someday,” she said softly to the flickering city. White Wind stood on her hind legs to see over the marble rail, and Sansa rubbed behind her ears. “You would like that, wouldn’t you?” When the pup gave no response but the tail beating  the back of her knees, Sansa sighed. _I would like it too._

            As dusk set in, Sansa leaned further over the rail to see the spot directly below the tower. A stretch of land, now stained with shadow, led to one of the many gates set into the palace walls.

            “Strange…” she murmured,  peering lower over the rail. Her unbound hair swung forward against her cheeks. Usually a guard or two stood held watch over the gate, but tonight the spot was deserted. It wasn’t too odd though—if Sansa had learned anything during her many months in here, it was that the Dornish were quite loose in their drink. She imagined those guards off in the city now, roaring with laugher as serving girls slammed goblets of wine onto the table. _Perhaps someday my husband will take me into Sunspear, and we will share a drink of our own…_

            A flicker of movement caught her eye. Two cloaked figures emerged from beneath the palace’s shadow, a saddled horse in hand. Their voices drifted upwards, and with a start, Sansa realized who they were. Her hand froze against the marble, and her heart thudded against her ribs.

            Ellaria and Tyene’s words were unintelligible in the breeze, but from their rigid stances, their sharp gestures, Sansa could tell they were arguing. Ellaria thrust the reins into the shorter woman’s hands, which Tyene seemed to refuse.

 _She’s leaving,_ Sansa realized. _I may never get another chance to prove what they did—what they’re doing._ Oberyn still didn’t know of his paramour and daughter’s betrayal, for she was sure he would never believe her. He still loved the woman too much. The letter still hidden beneath her pillow wasn’t even signed with Ellaria’s name. _If only I could follow them…but it’s too risky. Oberyn may return any moment and would grow livid if he knew I went out on my own…_

            There was a whine, and Sansa tore her eyes away from the scene below. They fell upon White Wind. The pup pressed her paws into her leg, whining again to get her attention.  

            She couldn’t follow them…but _Jaime_ could.

            Sansa sank to her knees, pressing her forehead against the pup’s own. “Go find him,” she whispered. _Go find Jaime…_

 

* * *

 

 

“Sansa!”

            White Wind darted inside behind him. Jaime froze, eyes whirling around. The bed was empty.

             “Sansa!” he called again, running to her bathing chamber. _Empty._ A whine tore his eyes away, and Jaime looked to see White Wind bounding towards the balcony. He followed, and just as he took in her limp body propped up against the rail, Sansa gasped. Her eyes flew open, pale white spinning back to blue.

            As he helped her up, Sansa’s words flooded out. “They’re leaving—no guards—you have to follow—”

             “Sansa, what are you talking about?”

            She took a breath, some color returning to her cheeks. It was only then did she seem to notice his hand on her arm, and she quickly tore herself away. Sansa turned, pointing below. “Ellaria and Tyene, Jaime—Tyene’s leaving tonight. You have to follow her, or I’ll never be able to prove what they did without telling him what I can do.”

            Jaime peered out over the rail. A figure on horseback rode steadily away from the palace walls. She kept the horse at a walk, though. _Any faster and she’d raise suspicion_ , he realized. “She’ll be out of the city by midnight.”

            Sansa nodded, facing him again. Her eyes glistened in the dusky light, but when Jaime started to reach for her again, she pulled away. “Please go after her,” she pleaded.

            “If I leave for no apparent reason, Oberyn will grow suspicious. If he happens to see Myrcella and I’m not by her side…” Jaime reached for her hand, and this time she did not flinch away. “It’s _you_ who must follow her, Sansa.”

             “Me? Oberyn will not return until dark, but still I cannot make it back in time—”

             “Follow her with White Wind.”

            She paused. “I don’t know, Jaime…I haven’t practiced in so long, not without…” She bit her lip, then added quietly, “Not without you.”

            He squeezed her fingers, then tilted her chin upwards to meet her eyes. Her lips parted slightly, and Jaime wanted nothing more than to take them right there just as he had before. _But I can’t…she does not want me anymore._ Jaime wasn’t oblivious to how she acted now. He knew that every night she returned to her husband’s chambers. And if the gossip whispered by the other guards was true, she called out her husband’s name every time. His stomach lurched, and Jaime quickly shoved the thought aside.

             “You are stronger than you think,” he told her, tearing his eyes away from her mouth. “Follow with White Wind, and we’ll put an end to that bitch once and for all.”

            Sansa blushed at his language, but a slight smile pulled at her lips. “Watch over me while I’m gone.” Another smile, then her eyes fluttered shut. Her body grew slack, and Jaime lifted her into his arms.

             “Always,” he whispered back. He didn’t know if she had heard.

 

* * *

 

 

            There was a noise at the door. “I didn’t expect you back so soon, Sansa,” he teased, waiting for her eyes to open. This had been his favorite part, when he could almost _see_ her spirit drift from beast to girl, see her eyelids flutter open and her fingers brush against him in realization.

            They didn’t open.

            A cold feeling of dread shot through his veins.

            As his eyes lifted from the girl’s head cradled in his lap, the words turned to dust on his tongue. His mouth went dry. “I can explain…”

            The prince’s eyes grew dark. No smirk played on his lips, and there was no laughter behind his voice. “Oh, please do.” He waited. Only now did Jaime see the cup rolling to a standstill on the floor. Dark liquid pooled on the marble.

            Jaime swallowed thickly. Sansa’s head grew heavy in his lap, her skin grew hot. _Wake up. Please wake up._ Her chest simply rose and fell peacefully in response. “She’s asleep,” he said finally. Lamely.

            Oberyn raised one brow, and his fingers played dangerously at the sword hilt at his side. “Sleeping? Kingslayer, I have seen my wife asleep. Wake her up.”

             “I can’t.”

             “Can’t?”

            Jaime had no response. His own blade lay on the opposite night table. _Too far_. The prince saw his eyes flick towards it, and he took a step closer.

             “Tell me what’s going on, or I’ll cut your tongue from your mouth. It is only the love I bear for your _niece_ and her babe that keeps me from killing you right now.”

            There was no point lying—Sansa would wake up, White Wind would come bounding in— _somehow_ he would find out. Jaime set his jaw, glancing down at the girl in his lap. “She’s a warg.” He prayed the Oberyn wouldn’t believe him.

            Oberyn’s fingers froze. A look swept over his face, and his eyes grew impossibly darker. “Like in the stories?” he asked suspiciously.

            Jaime nodded.

             “How long…”

             “Since you left.”

             “The pup I gave her?”

            He nodded again.

            A hiss whistled out from the prince’s teeth. Then he shook his head, almost in disbelief. “Where is…where is Sansa now?”

             “I don’t know,” he lied.

            With a sudden flash of movement, Oberyn unsheathed his blade and pressed it against Jaime’s throat. “So first you keep things _about my own wife_ from me, and now you seek to lie?”

            Jaime bit back a curse. The steel’s razor edge stung against his skin. “Something like that…”

 

* * *

 

 

            He had arrived back early. He had been on his way to deliver the moon tea. He had been on his way to make love to his wife.

            He had just learned that his wife was a warg.

             And now he had a blade pressed against the Kingslayer’s throat.

             “Talk, or I swear I’ll—”

            There was a gasp, and he stepped backwards in shock. Sansa suddenly sat bolt upright, and Oberyn for a second he saw her eyes glow a milky white before returning to a wild blue.

            Not even noticing him, Sansa rapidly began whispering in the Kingslayer’s ear. He thought he caught the words _Ellaria_ and _Tyene_ , but that couldn’t be right.

            Oberyn cleared his throat, and the girl’s head turned slowly towards him. Her face paled, and she immediately scrambled out of Jaime’s lap. “I—Oberyn—we were just—”

            He held up a hand to stop her. “The Kingslayer tells me you’re a warg.” A ringing silence followed his words.

            She paled again at his statement.  “He did?”

             “While your pretty head rested in his lap.”

            Her cheeks burned red, and her eyes flickered to Jaime. “Please, Oberyn…I can explain.”

             “Luckily your golden knight already did.” He could feel the anger boiling up—the Kingslayer must have spent time with her while he was away, practiced with her, held her sleeping body like he did tonight. But something smothered the fire budding inside, a voice that whispered the word _warg_ in his ear. He knew what that word meant…

            Oberyn leaned against the bedframe as her story began, absorbing the tale behind the four months he was away. Sansa spoke hesitantly at first, but his own silence seemed to push her forwards towards whatever explanation lay at the end. He knew she was afraid, maybe even guilty for keeping this secret from him. And he understood why—even their relationship could not mask the rumors they whispered about him. _The Kingslayer fueled those rumors_ , he realized as she spoke. _He told my wife to keep this from me…_

             “It was Ellaria and Tyene in the room…”

            Oberyn’s ears pricked, and he frowned. “Ellaria?”

            Sansa nodded, and tears welled in her eyes. “I wanted to tell you, truly, but I did not think you would believe me.”

            His mind reeled. _My lover, my daughter…_ Memories of the two attacks swam forward, little pieces that did not make much sense at the time fit together now, completing the puzzle. He didn’t want to believe it—she was the mother of four of his children—but at the same time… _Ellaria has always been a dangerous woman. A jealous woman…I liked that about her._

Sansa rambled on about a letter, hurrying to complete her story as if he would not believe it if she did not get to the end in time. At the word “Littlefinger” she put her head in her hands, muffling a sob.

            Jaime started to reach for her when Oberyn shot him a livid look. The Kingslayer’s hand retreated. Oberyn went to her on the bed, drew her into his arms. “I believe you,” he murmured, smoothing a hand over her hair. Jaime looked on from his spot against the wall, his jaw set in a hard line.

             “I believe you, Sansa,” he said again, holding her to his chest. Tears ran freely from her cheeks, and he could not help but think they were somewhat unwarranted. Yes, she had lied to him and kept this secret, but still… _she just feared my reaction, that is all_ , Oberyn told himself. _That and Myrcella’s babe…_ Even if Sansa claimed she did not care about the child, he knew differently. He knew some part of her wanted that life.

            When her tears had subsided, Oberyn gently pushed her back into the bed. “Sleep here tonight,” he muttered, pulling the blankets up. He tucked them to her chin, kissed her cheek like she was a child. “We can talk about it in the morning.”

            Sansa latched onto his wrist before he could pull away. Her lovely blue eyes still swam with tears, but her breathing had grown smooth again. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. She blinked, and a tear rolled down her cheek.

            Oberyn leaned over and brushed at it with his thumb. His mind still swam with the revelation of Ellaria and Littlefinger and the attacks, but one thing remained clear. _Sansa is a warg. Can the dragon queen refuse that?_

             “I know.” Oberyn detached himself, then turned to find the Kingslayer still standing there.

             “Anything else you want to share, _Kingslayer_?” Oberyn sneered as he strode off towards the door. Jaime shut the door behind him. Torchlight danced in the empty hall, casting the man’s face in shadow.

             “I didn’t mean to lie—”

            In a flash of movement, Oberyn had his hand at Jaime’s throat. His good hand was pinned against his chest. And Jaime just _stood_ against the wall, glowering as Oberyn’s fingers threatened to squeeze the air from his lungs. It just made him angrier, and Oberyn snarled in the man’s face. “Like _hell_ you didn’t.”

             “You would have—used her,” Jaime choked out, trying to pry Oberyn’s fingers away. The gold hand did nothing but bounce helplessly off his grip. “Used her—in this—war—you have—planned.”

            Oberyn slammed him further into the wall. “You know what I think?”

            Purple bloomed on the Kingslayer’s lips. A line of spittle dribbled from the corner. All he could do was nod.

            He smirked. “I think you wanted my wife to yourself. You hid this from me because you _knew_ it was your only chance to be with her. Lucky for me, my wife is more loyal than you think her to be.”

            Jaime made a strangled sound, and Oberyn relished in the feel of the Kingslayer’s flesh in his grip. Suddenly, his hand flew open, and Jaime fell back against the wall, coughing and cursing under his breath.

            As Oberyn walked away, Daenerys’s words ran through his head like it was only yesterday he met with the silver-haired queen.

             “Make your wife useful to me,” she had said. “And together we will take back the Seven Kingdoms.”

Oberyn smirked into the flickering darkness.

            _What could be more useful than a warg?_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long, but thanks for reading. By now I know how team-Oberyn some of you are, and hopefully you aren't too upset with me for this chapter. All I can say to that is the climax of this story is yet to come, and everyone, including Oberyn, will be facing things that change their view on the situation and each other. As always, I'm totally open for discussing my decisions and such.


	20. Chapter Twenty

Nothing.

            Oberyn pounded on the door again. “I don’t care if you’re drunk or asleep or—”

            The door swung open. Doran stared up at him from his wheeled chair, an amused look playing on his lined face. “You do know I have gout, brother?”

            “You couldn’t have gotten _him_ to let me in?” Oberyn nodded to the serving man standing behind the chair.

            Doran shrugged, then waved him inside. The serving man quietly slipped out, and Oberyn took his place to wheel the seat into the solar. He set the chair by the table. “I still hold my seat in Sunspear, Oberyn. I’m still the head of our house. I prefer to answer my own door.”

            _Some seat._ Oberyn bit back a sharp retort and plopped himself down. He poured two glasses of a fine red, ignoring his brother’s weary protest. It was late, but not too late to get drunk. _Or angry_ , he supposed as he swallowed. Drunk or angry, he wouldn’t stand to do it alone.

            With his second cup down, Oberyn straightened in his seat.

            “Drunk yet?”

            “Not nearly enough.”

            Doran smirked and took a sip of his own. “I assume you have something to say at this hour? I admit, I do not make the best drinking partner of late.”

            _But you make a good partner of another kind, brother. You’ve played the game longer than most of us._ “Ellaria has been betraying me,” he said slowly, gauging his brother’s reaction.

            “Sleeping with another? I thought you two enjoyed that sort of thing.”

            Oberyn’s eyes darkened. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d shared a girl or boy in bed… _it would have been in King’s Landing_ , he realized. _Before I saved Sansa from the Lannister’s clutches._ The memory of that bruised, fearful girl in Cersei’s solar twisted his mouth into a cold smirk. _If only the lion bitch could see her now…_ “Ellaria _and_ Tyene,” he added. “They were working with the Lannister’s Master of Coin, Petyr Baelish.”

            Doran leaned back in his chair, folding his swollen fingers in his lap. He sighed, but said nothing as a heavy silence stretched between them. His eyes closed, and Oberyn felt himself growing angry.

            “Do you not care that our own family tried to kidnap my wife?” he spat, fingers itching to grab a fistful of Doran’s robes and shake him. “Do you not care that they plotted for _months_ to hand her off to that whoremongering bastard?”

            Doran gave him a sharp look. _So the Viper wakes._ “Do I care? Yes, brother. I may be old and sick, but I still take pride in our house. But am I surprised?” He held up his palms, and the weary look returned to his honey-brown eyes. “Ellaria Sand was a jealous woman the day I met her, and she is a jealous woman still. You wrote to her when you decided to accept the Stark girl’s hand in marriage, did you not?”

            Oberyn nodded. _I sent her a raven the day the queen paraded Sansa before me like a sheep before the slaughter._ He had written of the pain he saw in her eyes, but also the great beauty hiding just beneath. _She is a girl like no other,_ he had scratched into the parchment. _A creature of the north, pale and lovely and kissed by fire._

            “What was it to her, then, to help Lord Baelish in this way? Ellaria would get your pretty young bride removed, and you never would have guessed your lover’s betrayal. Tyene likely followed the same logic—apparently there is not enough land in all of Dorne to allow for two exotic beauties in your heart.”

            Oberyn raked a hand through his hair. “But to think I never noticed…”

            His brother nodded in agreement. “You were not the only one who looked the other way. Though the girl Myrcella did come to me once about it.”

            “Myrcella?”

            “It was in passing, really. You know how the child gets, running through the gardens and giggling all the time…She happened to tell me that she did _indeed_ like Ellaria, that the woman was, to use her words, _oh so every kind nowadays._ ”

            Oberyn snorted. “Kind?”

            “It would seem Ellaria shifted her anger to a new target…one much easier to torment than my own daughter in law.”

            “Then she is a fool,” Oberyn muttered. “To think Sansa weaker than the Lannister girl…”

            Doran took another sip and made a noncommittal sound. _At least we do not disagree there._ “I will remind you not to be rash, brother. We mustn’t let word reach King’s Landing of Dorne’s internal… _dilemmas_. I advise you not to do anything stupid.”

            “You think I would kill my own daughter? My lover and mother of my children?”

            “Did I say that?” He gave Oberyn a piercing look, then continued on. “I think you are fueled by vengeance.”

            Oberyn stared at his now-empty goblet. _My Elia…what would you have me do?_ For a moment, he was lost in the memories of his sister, so old he could hardly remember her face. He tried, but golden cheeks only faded to a milky white. Jet black hair fell down her back, but the curls turned a flaming red.

            He poured another glass. “Tyene will have escaped the city by now,” he said, swallowing with a grimace. “I will let her go…but the day she returns, I want her shipped off. Someplace hot and dry and far away from here.”

            “Someplace…?”

            He waved a hand, wine sloshing in the goblet. “I do not care. One of the Free Cities, perhaps. Let her play her games on some other man’s wife.”

            “And Ellaria?”

            He set the goblet back down. “I have something else planned for her,” he answered quietly. _Something else indeed…_

Doran did not push it further. After a moment and another sip, he asked lightly, “And what of your trip to Lys? You told me you were to meet with Daenerys Targaryen, and yet you have been loath to discuss it any further.”

            “In truth, I did not think the alliance would work,” he admitted. “Yes, _I_ have always seen my wife for the creature she is, but the dragon queen?”

            “They say silver ash falls from her silver hair.”

            _And blood stains the ground beneath her feet._ Oberyn knew the stories—and after meeting her, he knew they were true. “I did not think it would work,” he began again, “…until tonight.”

            Doran raised a brow. “Oh? Did Sansa learn to wield a sword while you were away? Throw a spear?”

            “She learned she’s a warg.”

            For a minute, he didn’t think Doran had understood. “The _Kingslayer_ was helping her,” he clarified, the knight’s name dripping with disgust. “That’s how she found out about Ellaria and Tyene.”

            There was a sigh, then Doran pinched the bridge of his nose. He shut his eyes. “Oberyn…Sansa is just a girl, a child—”

            “Do you not realize what this means?” Oberyn hissed, slamming his fist on the table. The goblet shuddered, and Doran sighed again. Oberyn rose, having to steady himself on the table. His head swam, but he didn’t care. He didn’t want to hear his this. Not now, not after tonight.

            “Do _you_?”

            “It means that this girl has more power than we ever dreamed! We talked and talked and talked of this dragon queen, but open your eyes now, Doran—we hold the true queen of the north in our hands now, a girl who will rip the throats of our enemies and bear a silver crown upon her head. Even Daenerys Targaryen cannot match her.” His voice dropped lower, and he shoved Doran’s goblet towards him. _A peace offering._ “And she will rule by my side, Doran. By _Dorne’s_ side.”

            Doran eyed the wine, and for a second, Oberyn thought he might take it. Then his eyes rose back up. “You are a bigger fool than I thought, brother.”

            Oberyn held Doran’s gaze. The older man stared back, weak and swollen and disgusting. _And I am the fool?_ “Dorne will join the dragon queen’s force,” he began slowly, “and my wife will ride by her side.” He pushed back his chair with a _screech_ and made for the door without another word.

            _Yes we will ride…but there are things to take care of first. Things that will give my queen her first taste of blood before the storm._

           

* * *

 

 

            “Would you like to hold her, uncle?”

            Jaime tore his eyes away from the window, turning to Myrcella in surprise. His daughter now tolerated him keeping guard, but he usually spent the time chatting idly with the other men or chancing glances out the window. The nursery offered a glimpse of the courtyard below, but to his disappointment, he caught no flash of red amidst the silk and dust and steel.

            “I do not know if that would be wise, Myrcella…”

            She ignored him, bending down to retrieve the babe from her cradle. Myrcella’s face lit up as Ceransa’s tiny hands reached for her loose curls. “Nonsense,” she scoffed, making her way back over. “It’s about time you got to know her.” And before he could protest, she thrust the pale-yellow bundle into his arms.

            Ceransa blinked up at him, a smile rounding her rosy cheeks. “She looks like you used to,” he said softly. “Trystane’s skin and hair, but…”

            “But my eyes,” she finished for him. She let the babe latch onto the pendant swinging away from her chest, and Ceransa squealed in delight. “Emerald, just like mother’s and yours.”

            “She has your smile too.”

            Myrcella flushed and couldn’t help but grin. “I think she likes you, uncle,” she said, swinging the amber stone and watching as Ceransa’s eyes followed it. “Mother says it was _you_ who held us when we were born, not father.”

            “I…I did what I could,” he said quietly, remembering the fat King Robert. The only time the bastard payed any attention to his family was when he either punished his children or fucked his queen. Neither, fortunately, could he do too often. _At least the wine and whores were good for one thing_ , thought Jaime, biting back a smirk. _I thank the Seven every day he couldn’t stay sober long enough to truly influence Myrcella and Tommen. Joffrey, on the other hand…_ Jaime didn’t know who his late son looked up to except himself.

            Myrcella’s soft voice brought him back to the babe in his arms. “Sometimes I pray she’ll never see King’s Landing.” Her eyes met his, and they swam with tears. “Is that wrong of me?”

            Jaime was at a loss for words. He never talked to Myrcella like this, never gave advice or wiped her tears or… _or acted like a father_ , he realized.

            Before he could string something together, Myrcella continued on. The words rushed out, boiling over as if she’d held them for quite a time. “I just—King’s Landing is _home,_ but it was so dangerous there. Not only with the war or Joff…but with mother. I pray Ceransa will never know her because, because…” She sniffed, wiping away the tears at her cheeks. “Because I fear what mother may do to her. What she may make her into.” Her face had gone blotchy, and her lip quivered, threatening a sob. Not knowing what else to do, Jaime offered her the corner of his cloak. She refused it with a tearful, bubbling laugh and dabbed at her eyes with the sleeve of her gown.

            “Your mother would love her,” he said, glancing back down at the babe. Her eyes had closed, and her lips moved soundlessly as she slept.

            “Like she loved Joff?”

            _The boy died because she loved him. Cersei loved him too much, and she was blinded by his madness._ Jaime sighed. “Perhaps, Myrcella. I do not know what she would do.” And it was the truth. All this time away from his twin only heightened the flaws he saw in her, the rage behind the golden mask. He saw her mistakes, his mistakes. The ones they had made together.

            Myrcella put a hand on his arm. Gone were the tears from her eyes. Now, they only pleaded. “Promise me you’ll protect her, Jaime,” she whispered. “Whatever happens. You’re the only one I trust with her.”

            Jaime stared at her hand, for the second time at a loss for words. And as she gazed at him, as he felt Ceransa’s weight in his arms, he realized that none of it would have been possible before. He never could have loved his daughter. He never could have held his granddaughter. Dorne was hell, but at least his twin did not reign here.

            When he finally spoke, the words stuck in his throat. He parted his lips once, twice, before he found his voice. “Myrcella, there’s something—”

            “Ser Jaime.”

            He whirled around to find two guards standing in the doorway. Ceransa woke, her cries threatening to drown Jaime out. “What is it?” he asked, glaring at the men. Myrcella’s fingers clutched tighter to his arm as she tried to shush the babe.

            “Prince Oberyn requested that you come with us.”

            “Requested?” He bounced Ceransa lightly in his arms, but her wails only grew louder.

            “Ordered.”

            _Shit_. Jaime looked to Myrcella, whose eyes met his nervously. Quickly, she took Ceransa from his arms. _Later_ , he wanted to say. He could only flash an apologetic look.

            Cursing under his breath and keeping a steady glare on the guards, he followed them through the palace. When he asked what had happened, they only grunted in reply. As they walked, dread grew in Jaime’s stomach, and he suspected the worst. _He knows about us_ , he thought madly as they halted outside a set of doors.

            The doors swung open, and this time he didn’t bother to bite back his curse.

            The two guards shut the door behind him, and Jaime found himself staring back at the prince and his wife. They sat at a large, cherry-wood table, and both had half-full crystal goblets before them. A silver pitcher sat at the far edge, filled nearly to the brim with dark crimson. Jaime knew full well that Sansa despised Dornish wines, and yet she timidly took a sip as he entered. Oberyn said nothing as he took a deeper swallow of his own, and with only the prince’s unwavering gaze to prompt him, Jaime took a seat at the table.

            Jaime gestured to Sansa’s glass. “She hates the taste, you know. But I, on the other hand…” He eyed the pitcher, half-tempted to steal Sansa’s goblet. If the prince had somehow found out, Jaime wanted to be well on his way to drunk before hearing it. 

            Sansa glanced at her hands. Oberyn raised a brow.

            Jaime drew his hand away.

            Silence stretched, long and heavy and dense between the three of them. No one spoke. The only movement was Sansa’s wringing hands. The only sound was Oberyn as he drank. First came a swallow, then a quiet _chink!_ of glass on polished wood. Jaime was about to bite his tongue and whistle through his teeth to disrupt the tension when the doors flew open.

           

* * *

 

 

            Oberyn looked up from his goblet, and the smirk quickly disappeared from his face. He’d been enjoying tormenting the Kingslayer far too much, but now he had a better game to play.

            “Ellaria, my love. Thank you for joining us.”

            Her eyes went straight to Sansa, and he saw a flash of anger before they moved on. When they fell upon Jaime, they narrowed. “What is _he_ doing here?”

            Oberyn’s smirk returned. “I now know who was behind the attacks. Sit.”

            Ellaria swept over to the seat by the far end, where she could observe each of them. His words pleased her, and she leaned over to playfully snatch the goblet out of his fingers. She splashed some wine into it from the pitcher. “Does the Lion of Lannister squeal like a little pig after all?”

            Jaime shot him a bewildered look, which Oberyn was quick to ignore. He grabbed Ellaria’s hand to keep her attention on him. “Oh yes, but do you know who would squeal even more?” He pulled her closer until her hand rested against his thigh.

            She threw back her head as she swallowed, flashing Oberyn a mischievous look. Her fingers danced along his leg as she spoke. “Who?” They inched beneath his waistband.

            “ _You_.” In one swift movement, Oberyn grabbed her wrist and yanked her to her feet. In another, he had her pinned against the wall, arms bent at the elbow and wrists pressed against the stone. “I think you’ll squeal the loudest, Ellaria.”

            She tried to wiggle free, but he held her fast. The playfulness in her eyes turned to fear before it was quickly masked with a sneer. “So you found out at last,” she drawled, trying to twist one hand free.

            “You tried to attack my wife. You and Tyene.”

            “A wife you care nothing for.”

            He slapped her, ignoring the hand that fell to her side. There were no weapons she could grab. He had made sure of that before calling for her. “You would have _sold_ her to that man like a whore.”

            Ellaria smirked. “I thought you liked whores.”

            He hit her again. The mark was sharp and angry and red, but Ellaria’s eyes only shone brighter. She was _pleased_ with herself. _Proud_ of her betrayal. It was only Sansa’s gasp from behind that stopped him from hitting her again. “Tyene will be exiled when she returns,” he said in a low voice. “My daughter only followed your orders. She is not the jealous, coward of a woman I blame.”

            Ellaria’s chest heaved, her olive-colored breasts rapidly rising and falling above her low-cut gown. She closed her eyes, tilted her head.

             “Have you nothing to say?” he demanded.

            Her eyes flicked open. Then in a sudden flash of movement, she reached around him and grabbed the silver pitcher. Sansa shrieked and Jaime’s chair screeched back, but before he could stop her, crimson filled his vision, washing before his eyes like a wall of blood.

            The pitcher clattered to the floor. The sweet scent filled his nose, the cool liquid soaked through his thin silks to his skin. Oberyn heard Sansa begin to rush forwards, but he waved her off.

            Oberyn took a breath, then skimmed the wine from his eyes. Ellaria still stood before him, smirking and more pleased than before. _So it is games you want to play, my love?_

            In one step, Oberyn closed the distance between them. He forgot Sansa, forgot Jaime. The rest of the world fell away.

            With his chest pressed against her, Oberyn roughly grabbed her wrists in one hand, pinning them above her head. With the other, her snatched her jaw, forcing her breaths to escape against his lips. His heart raced, and Oberyn could _feel_ the cold fear seeping into her heart.

            “Taste it,” he murmured, brushing his lips against hers. She tried to tear her chin away, but his fingers only dug in tighter. She squirmed beneath him, and he growled against her mouth, kissing her roughly. A dark stain blossomed at her chest from where he pressed against her. “Go on.” His hand traveled lower, wrapping around her throat. He kissed her again, pulling at her bottom lip with his teeth. When he pulled away, it was not only sweetness that filled his mouth.

            Ellaria met his eyes in defiance before spitting in his face. “Do whatever you want to that bitch. I don’t care.”

            This time Oberyn didn’t bother to wipe anything away. He released her hands, her throat. “Tyene will face her punishment,” he said simply. He shook out his hands, flicking droplets away. Wine dripped from his sleeves, forming dark puddles on the floor.

            “And what about me?” Ellaria hissed, dark eyes flashing as they narrowed. Her chin jutted forward as she tried to regain her composure. “You don’t have the balls to kill me now—you’re just as weak as your brother. Besides, who will fuck you when need a reminder of your _princely_ power?”

            Oberyn tilted his head, regarding her with the traces of a smile. _I do not need you anymore, Ellaria…I will have another, more beautiful and stronger than even you._ “You are right. I am too much like my brother. In some ways, that is. In others…not so much. Which is why I will not kill you, my love. Not yet. Not until we kill him first.”

            “And will you do it yourself?” she sneered, voice cracking with fear at the end. “Or is that why he’s here?” she said, jerking her chin behind him. “You’ll get your Lannister lapdog to kill Baelish for you.”

            Oberyn shook his head. A few more stubborn droplets fell from his hair to the floor. “No,” he said firmly. A smirk curved his lips as he turned towards his wife, eyes blazing as he gazed upon her. His wife returned a tentative smile.

            _And this, my love, is how I win._

            “Sansa will be the one to do it. The princess of Dorne shall slay the man that betrayed her family and stole her youth.” He turned back to her, smirk widening as her face fell. “Only then will I kill you, Ellaria.”

 

* * *

 

 

            She heard Oberyn’s words, but as their meaning took hold, Sansa’s face began to pale. She struggled to keep a smile on her lips. It wasn’t his plan that frightened her now, turned her blood to ice till it seemed to freeze within her veins. It was his words, his ending words to her, that nagged at the back of her mind.

            _Was it not you as well, my husband, who stole my youth from me as well?_

 

* * *

 

 

            Jaime let the door slam shut behind him. Inside Ellaria had finally broken down, and her cries and screams were hardly muffled through the wooden doors.

            His mind whirled at what he’d just seen and heard, but he knew Sansa’s whirled even more. She had run from the room at her husband’s leave, and Jaime had leapt to his feet to follow. He didn’t care what Oberyn thought—the man was too focused on his former lover to pay them much attention just yet.

            A few paces ahead Sansa stumbled, giving him a chance to catch up.

            “Wait,” he said, catching her arm and spinning her around. She struggled in his grasp, but Jaime held on, coaxing her behind a wide pillar so none would see. “Sansa, listen to me—”

            “Let go!” she whispered. She choked back a sob, and Jaime now saw the wetness on her cheeks.

            Jaime pressed himself closer, trapping her with her back against the  hard stone. “No,” he said firmly, checking over his shoulder before lowering his voice. She had her head turned to avoid his eyes, and the thin muscles of her neck flexed rapidly as her breathing quickened. “ _Listen_.”

            Sansa forced out a nod, relaxing slightly against him.

            “You do not have to do this—you do not have to kill this man.”

            Now her eyes met his, and they shone paler than the sky at dawn, clear and blue and afraid. More afraid than he’d ever seen them. “I do,” she choked out. “I have to. I am Sansa Stark, the wife to the Prince of Dorne.”

            Jaime shook his head. “You are a Stark, and your words may speak of winter, but _you do not have to be that._ You are a child of summer, Sansa. You are a young girl and you do not need to play at these games…at killing.”

            Sansa’s eyes clouded over—he thought at first with tears, but then something stronger swam into view. Something harsher, something cold. Her spine straightened, and her jaw grew taunt. Even her breasts, which had been rising and falling rapidly above her corset just moments before, grew still. “I may not be entirely of winter, Jaime, but I am _not_ a little girl.” She pushed him away and slid out from beneath his arms, glowering.

            “You saw to that too. It was not just my husband—and I will do this, Jaime. I will. And if I freeze and _wilt_ like you think I will, so be it.”


	21. Chapter Twenty One

“Come back.” Oberyn patted the spot by his side.

            Sansa gave him an apologetic smile. White Wind sat beside her on the chaise, head resting in Sansa’s lap as she worked a brush over the white fur. The soft bristles teased at the tangles—Oberyn had assured her that the servants could groom the pup, but Sansa insisted. _She is mine, and mine alone_ , she thought as she tore her eyes back to her lap. She smoothed a hand over White Wind’s head, massaging the spot behind her ears. _All I have left of what once was._

            “In a minute.” She knew what came next. After he had found out about Ellaria, Sansa had taken to sleeping in his own chamber instead of her own. She didn’t know why—it was just…expected. Like he had returned from this dragon queen she still knew so little of and expected a queen of his own to come back to. It was their routine. It was her life. Oberyn would call her over, whisper pretty words into her ear, and then make love to her as the moon rose out over the tide. Come morning he’d slide a cup of steaming tea before her without a word.

            “Sometimes I think you care more for that dog than me,” he said from the bed.

            Her lips twisted into a frown. “I’m sorry.” Her hand stilled, and she folded it with the other in her lap. When she turned to look at him, she saw the light in his eyes, the grin on his tanned face. _He’s just teasing._ Sansa put back on her smile.

He gestured again for her to join him, and this time she obeyed, crawling across the disheveled silks to curl up by his side. She laid a hand on his bare chest, nestling her head against his shoulder. “You’re wrong,” Sansa sighed. She listened to his deep breaths as they lifted his chest up and down. “And I haven’t forgotten who gave her to me in the first place.”

            “Maybe you need to show me this _warging_ I’ve heard so much of.”

            “I’m tired.”

            He pressed a kiss against her forehead. “I thought you were a wolf. Come on, Sansa, White Wind is already here. I want you to show me.”

            She nestled further into the crook of his arm, deliberately shutting her eyes and hoping he’d drop it. “Not tonight,” she muttered against him. _Not ever_ , she thought to herself. Warging was something she could only do with Jaime…every time she tried to do it now, she only lasted a few minutes in the dog’s mind before she was wrenched out and left gasping for breath and covered in a cold sweat. It was like her body _knew_ how vulnerable it was without the knight watching over her, holding her to his chest.

            Oberyn leaned closer, filling her nose with his warm, slightly spiced scent. She could feel his breath on her cheek, his hands pulling at her waist, urging her closer. “Show me, little wolf,” he murmured, kissing her jaw. “Show me how you can warg.”

            Sansa pushed him away, sitting up to meet his eye. “Why do you care so much?” she demanded, crossing her arms over her chest. “It’s all you talk about, this…this _thing_ I can do. Like I’m suddenly different now…suddenly someone else.”

            Oberyn shifted onto one elbow and began to reach for her. Sansa flinched away, and his hand fell back to the bed. He sighed, then raked a hand through his hair. “You know I met with Daenerys Targaryen.”

            “The queen across the Narrow Sea.”

            He nodded. “She’s a lot closer than that now. We met in Lys to discuss—”

            “I know what you discussed,” said Sansa, cutting him off. His brows raised in surprised, but she continued on. “An alliance, a war, a conquering…Jaime told me what the men have been saying.” She expected him to reprimand her for talking with the knight, but his only reaction was a small twitch of his lip. Somehow in all of this, her husband still didn’t know about that reckless, foolish night…and Sansa wasn’t about to tell him now. When he didn’t respond, she continued on. “I just don’t know what my warging has to do with it.”

            Oberyn reached for her again, and this time she let him. He cupped her cheek, brushed back the hair at her temples. “It is _everything_ , Sansa. _You_ are everything. The dragon queen will take back the Seven Kingdoms with Dorne by her side, but she wants something else as well.”

            “Me?”

             “The north would be a great asset in the war to come, Sansa. But only if she has you too, and only if she doesn’t fear you’d lead the north into a rebellion once the kingdoms are hers. Before you can ride by the dragon queen’s side, you must prove yourself to her. Prove your loyalty, your strength. _That_ is why I care so much about your warging, Sansa. Because _now you can._ ”

            Sansa put her hand over his, pressing his warm palm to her cheek. “And what if I can’t?” She thought of those nights she’d wake, alone and covered with sweat. When she tried to control this power in her, only to fail again and again. When she was left searching desperately for air and a man’s arms she never could have. “What if I’m not capable of…of _proving_ myself?”

            He drew her towards him. His mouth met hers, sweet and spiced and strong. One hand worked its way to the nape of her neck, where the halter of her silk gown was tied. Sansa caught his hand as his fingers began to pull at the knot.

            “Oberyn…”

            He pulled away slightly, meeting her eyes with a fierce look. “Not _capable_?” His eyes found her lips, and he moistened his own. “The power inside you would make a woman weep, would make a grown man fall to his knees. Look what it does to me…and trust me on this, my princess. I am not a man easily swayed.”

            “I just…I’m just not sure—”

            His lips crushed against hers to silence her. “Then let _me_ do the proving,” he breathed against her lips, voice hoarse, eyes darkening. Again he reached for the knot behind her neck, and this time Sansa nodded. The silk fell away, and she slid off the bed to let it pool at her feet.

            Oberyn extended a hand, pulling her back towards him. When Sansa moved to lay down, he put a hand on her shoulder, stopping her. “I want to look up at you,” he muttered, leaning back against the mattress.

            Sansa frowned, but did as he asked. In all their nights as man and wife, he had never asked such a thing. Now she allowed him to guide her, felt his hands run against her hips, draw her onto his lap to straddle him just below his waist.

            “Do you know what it means to be a queen?” he asked, glinting eyes drinking her in. He put a hand to her chest, and his fingers brushed against the underside of one breast, then upwards towards the thin bones at her collar.

            She shook her head, biting her lip as his hand dipped lower. Her eyes closed as heat from his touch seemed to seep inside her, seemed to flow through her veins from her heart to the spot between her legs. “I don’t know,” she said, forcing her breaths to remain even. “I never was one.”

            “Take a guess,” he murmured, both hands resting at the curve of her waist.

            “I don’t know…” Sansa racked her brain, confused at the game he was trying to play. The only queen she knew was Cersei, and the only thing she knew of her was cruelty, the way she smirked as Sansa fell to the ground in pain, as knights beat her bloody with mailed fists and uncaring eyes. Cersei was no queen, Sansa realized.

             “She is gentle,” said Sansa finally. She looked to him for approval.

             Oberyn's eyes flickered in pleasure. “Then prove that you are gentle,” he said simply.

            With a jolt of understanding, Sansa spread her hands across his chest, felt the soft, dark hairs beneath her fingers. Lowering herself over him, Sansa brushed her lips against his for just long enough to feel his fingers tighten at her waist, not wanting her to back away again. But she did, and his eyes shone with approval.

            “What else?”

            “She is strong.”

            “Then prove it.” He sat up, mouth searching hungrily for her lips. Sansa turned her head to the side, and his lips kissed and sucked at her throat instead. A hand dipped lower, cupping her backside and drawing her towards him so that she was on her knees, still straddling his waist. Oberyn thrust her upwards and against him, and Sansa glanced down to see where the laces of his breeches strained.

            Oberyn saw where her eyes had been, and he reached for the laces while his lips worked at the tip of one swollen, tingling breast. He moaned against her, thrusting her hips faster against his own. He began to free himself, about to flip her onto her back when Sansa pushed him back against the mattress.

            “Not yet.”

            Oberyn raised one brow. “You would make me wait?” he asked, breathless.

            Sansa appraised him, then said, “Take them off first.” She nodded to the breeches.

            He grinned in approval, then did as she commanded. “Is that it?” he asked when he laid back against the mattress once more.  “Is that all a queen is?”

            She felt his hands resting against her hips, felt his hardened manhood against her thigh. Hair clung to her back where sweat now glistened, and her own breaths quickened as she took it all in. There was something about the way she could look down at him, feel his body quiver beneath hers in anticipation…it was power. A power she had over him, one that bubbled up inside her chest and beat its fists against her ribs, aching and sweet and hungry…and maybe even a power she could use elsewhere. A power she could use to sway the dragon queen.

            “A queen is powerful.”

            His grin widened before lust swam stronger in his eyes and his fingers clenched the burning flesh at her thighs. “And you will be sure of that once and for all, Sansa... _especially_ once that whoremongering bastard’s blood spills beneath your touch.” He pushed her down so that her back lay against the mattress, her sweaty, wild curls trapped beneath her shoulders. Oberyn caged her beneath him, hips grinding achingly slow against hers before he nudged apart her legs with his knee. “Dorne will raise her banners within the month,” he whispered against her throat, kissing the spot where her heartbeat thumped madly, begging to be set free. “And the dragon girl will meet the northern queen that is to ride by her side.”

            As Oberyn thrust inside her and hands grabbed hungrily at her breasts and lips kissed every part of her, Sansa let every breath and moan escape. It was a song of pleasure and power and pain, and for the first time, Sansa believed it. _How can he not be right about me_? Sansa wondered as his lips ravaged the spot between her legs, as they kissed her folds and tasted her down below. _I can be the wife he wants, the girl he needs. I can be that queen._

 

* * *

 

 

            Jaime frowned when he heard the gate swing open beside him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Oberyn slide up beside him, head resting leisurely against the courtyard’s stone wall.

            “Can I help you, my prince?” he asked through gritted teeth. Jaime kept his gaze fixed ahead at the children playing in the high-noon sun. Myrcella and Sansa both had joined them today as the babe slept inside under a nursemaid’s watchful eye. Now both girls sat giggling in their seats as Trystane and two squires reenacted some famous duel they always talked about. It was a dull affair, in truth, but Jaime could not help but be pleased to watch the girls’ faces light up with laughter at their clumsy swordplay.

            “Does my nephew always lose so badly?” Oberyn asked as Trystane’s blunt-edged blade fell to the sand.

            Jaime shrugged. “Only when his wife is watching. Makes the boy nervous, I suppose.”

            “And that one?” The prince jutted his chin towards the squire leaping towards Trystane, sword outstretched and shock of dark curls whipping backwards in the wind. “A good fighter, and quick on his feet…”

             The boy lost his footing, and his blade clattered beside the first on the hard ground.

            “ _That_ one has a lady of his own to worry over.” And as Jaime suspected, the squire shot a look to Sansa, hoping desperately to catch a glimpse of her laughter.

            Oberyn crossed his arms and grunted with disinterest, and Jaime smirked. “I didn’t come to discuss the way green boys flirt with my wife.”

            “Oh?” Jaime turned to him, pulling a frown. “Then why did you come? Here to whisk your wife away from her peers?”

            The prince ignored him, and Jaime saw only his hardening jaw to mark his displeasure. “When we march west to meet the Targaryen force, you’re to come with us.”

            Jaime’s lips parted in surprise. “I thought I was to guard Myrcella and Ceransa…” He glanced back to his daughter, and he watched as she threw back her head in laughter at something her husband said. “You’re taking them with you,” he said slowly, not fully understanding. “Why would…” His eyes traveled to Sansa, whose pink lips curved into a pretty smile. The sun beat down on her head, and her loose curls glimmered like molten copper in the summer’s sun. His stomach gave a sudden lurch, and his throat constricted around his words. “Little girls have no place in war,” he managed, turning back to the prince. _None of them do._

            “They will be perfectly safe and well away from the battles.”

            Jaime felt himself growing angry at the prince’s lack of understanding— _these are children!_ he wanted to shout. _Children of summer, of sun-filled days and frost-kissed winters._ Instead he bit his cheek, forcing his breaths to remain measured. “So they will be _hostages_ ,” he asked sourly.

            Oberyn paused before answering, and when he did, he carefully avoided Jaime’s eyes. “They may be useful down the line.”

            A barking laugh escaped Jamie’s lips, and he shook his head in disbelief. “ _Useful…_ Prince Oberyn, this is my family you mean to drag along with you to war, to have ride by your force’s side—”

            “The only one by my side will be my wife,” said Oberyn sharply, cutting him off with a fierce look. “Your family will be fine.” With one final, hard gaze the prince swept from the courtyard, and only the ringing iron gate was left to remind Jaime of the _discussion_ , if it could even be named as such.  

            Jaime swore beneath his breath, and his left hand clenched into a fist. The children had turned at the sound, and now their eyes gazed questioningly at him.

            He raised a hand in a curt wave, and soon the boys were back to their fighting, the girls back to their chattering. Only Sansa’s eyes lingered on him for a moment longer, asking silently what had happened. Jaime returned her question with a forced smile, and he watched as the girl he just called _family_ resumed her summer’s court.

            _Her last court before winter,_ he realized as he gazed across at her. _Her last summer before the war._ His eyes travelled to Myrcella, his thoughts went back to his sleeping granddaughter within the palace walls. Whatever the prince had said, each one of them was still a child. Even if they never laid a finger on a sword, each one was a just little girl sent off to fight in their kingdom’s war. And this one would not be like the last. This one would be longer, bloodier, _cruel_. He could feel it in his bones, he could see it in the way their laugher drifted up into the mockingly blue sky, disappearing from the world below.

            Jaime’s fingers curled around his sword hilt, and his phantom hand itched beneath its golden seal.

            _It just may be the last summer for us all_.


	22. Chapter Twenty Two

Sansa paused at the junction. Dust kicked up from her woven sandals, settling on her feet in a way that would have once sent her running for a maidservant to scrub them clean. Now she didn’t pay it any mind. Dust and dirt clung to her feet, to the hem of her skirt, to her hair, but that was the way of war, Sansa had learned this past month. At least, that was the way for the prince of Dorne’s wife.

            “Lost, m’princess?”

            One of Oberyn’s men stood outside a blood-orange tent, his greatsword stuck upright into the earth so that he could lean on it with an elbow. He regarded her cheerfully enough, though Sansa did not fail to notice the slight question in his eyes.

            “Do you know the way to my husband’s tent?” she asked, returning the soldier’s smile. “I’m afraid I don’t quite remember the way, and he sent for me to join him at sundown. I thought it was just over there…” she trailed off, shielding her eyes to gaze down the line.

            “Ah. We had to rearrange with the new men coming in every day. I’ll show you the way, m’princess.”

            His words settled her down a bit. She _knew_ that the Martell’s had an army not yet tired from the War of the Five Kings, but still it often worried her to think of the size of the enemies they might face. Sansa gave him her thanks and followed the man to the right, where the tents seemed to crop up thicker and thicker until they were strolling through an autumn forest, with the dark wooden poles reaching high into the sky and swathes of orange silk streaming away, billowing in the wind like huge leaves. The Martell’s speared sun adorned the slanted roofs, with the thread-of-gold laced through the sigil glinting in the dimming light.

            “Here you are.” The solider pulled up outside the largest tent in sight and lifted the flap. In the shadowed, wavering light the spot where the spear pierced the sun looked an eye, winking menacingly down at her in all its flaming glory. Sansa’s belly flipped as she passed beneath it.

            _It mocks me_ , she thought absurdly. _My husband’s own sigil mocks me as I pass within its gaze._ Sansa blinked rapidly, trying to clear the image from her mind. Too often did she feel out of place here, where her husband frequented his war council more than her pavilion, where even Myrcella was out of reach as Jamie guarded her and the babe day and night. Still Oberyn forbad her from spending time with the knight, leaving Sansa alone most days with only White Wind for company. No, she did not need a _sigil_ to alienate her as well…

            Inside the sheer silk walls cast an orange glow, illuminating her husband’s face as he peered down at a map. When he saw her, his head quickly snapped up, and he grinned. A tall mirror stood by the tent’s entrance, reflecting her pale face back when she glanced sideways. The girl in the glass was thinner than Sansa remembered her being in Sunspear, though she supposed that would happen after a month without eating the palace’s rich cooking.

            “Sansa, there you are.” Oberyn moved out from behind the table, rolling up the parchment and tossing it aside as he did so. When he reached her, Oberyn took her face in his hands, kissing her deeply.

            “You taste like sand and sweat,” she complained lightly as he pulled away.

            “I’ve been working out in the north lines, there was a problem with the Fowlers…” Oberyn continued on, speaking of in-fighting and supplies and horses and other factors of war she did not know much of. Sansa found herself nodding along as he spoke, though her eyes drifted over to a cherry-wood and gold chest sitting on the ground behind the table. The curved, ornate lid was closed, though the heavy buckle was undone and just a hint of silver spilled out, glimmering in the warm light.

            “What’s that?” she asked suddenly when Oberyn paused in his tale. The chest was a pretty thing, something she might have seen in a room at the palace but not in her husband’s war camp. Sansa couldn’t remember the number of times Oberyn warned her not to leave her valuables strewn about her pavilion—yes, these were Martell men, but men all the same.

            He followed her eyes, then a coy smile broke out across his face. “It’s why I sent for you, my princess,” he said, turning towards the chest. “Stay here and close your eyes.”

            “Oberyn, you needn’t give me anything.” Sansa did as he said though, the corner of her lips twitching as her eyelids fluttered shut. She heard him walk away, heard the chest creak open. There was a rustling sound, the sharp sound of metal, then more footsteps. Sansa was about to open her eyes when a hand gently turned her around. Her bodice began to loosen, and the sound of silk pulling through silk filled her ears. She reached back, laying a hand on his arm.

            “Don’t move,” he murmured against her neck. His fingers ghosted against her lower back, pulling at the final laces. “Or you’ll ruin the surprise.”

            Sansa rolled her eyes behind their lids, hand falling back to her side. “I can undress myself, you know.”

            He ignored her, now allowing the bodice to fall to her waist and drawing her arms from the sleeves. As he worked the skirt down over her hips, he brushed his fingers along the underside of one breast. Sansa shivered as he cupped the soft flesh.

            “Are you done?” she breathed out, heartbeat quickening as the silks pooled at her feet and his hands smoothed over her stomach, drawing her against his chest. Lips found the pulsing spot at her neck, and Sansa could not help the moan that escaped. “Done undressing your doll?”

            His lips traveled across her collar, peppering the skin with fire. “You’re not a doll. You’re a princess. _My_ princess. And no, I’m not done.”

            _Are they not the same_? Sansa wondered, frowning slightly at his words. Before she could dwell too long on it, Oberyn gently guided her legs, helping her to step into something that she could only describe as _water_. As the fabric found its way over her hips, past her breasts, Sansa imagined herself stepping into a pool of molten silver, though instead of heat, it was a strange coolness that coated her skin now. But before the tingling went away, something much heavier pressed against her skin, something hard and stiff and cold. It wrapped its way around her waist, and she gave a little gasp as the air flew from her lungs when her husband pulled it taunt. The image of a breastplate filled her head. _He gives me armor?_

            She heard the soft _chink_ of a metal as something came to rest atop her head, and then Oberyn’s hands fell heavily onto her shoulders. He spun her around and said softly in her ear, “You may look.” He kissed her cheek as her eyes blinked open.

            _He does…_ Sansa stared back at the girl in the mirror, lips parted in shock. Silvery fabric shimmered in the light as it fell like water down her body, just barely brushing the tops of her feet. What made her breath catch in her chest was not the beautiful silk though…it was the silver breastplate, though one not like the breastplates she had ever seen on a man, sucking to her ribs and waist, pushing her breasts upwards in a way that made Sansa gasp. The Stark’s fierce direwolf flashed in the dark metal, stamped with icy sapphire. Sansa brushed her thumb over the wolf’s glittering eye, blinking heavily.

            “Do you like it?” Oberyn murmured from behind.

            Sansa lifted her eyes, for the first time noticing the silver-and-gold circlet atop her crown. The two metals wove together, resting against her temple with her husband’s sigil set proudly in the center, its flaming shape inlaid with brilliant topaz. When she found Oberyn’s face above one shoulder, Sansa put on a smile, though her mind whirled.

            “It’s beautiful…it’s just…” Sansa turned to face him, pushing aside the girl in the mirror who she did not recognize. “This armor, this crown…you do not expect me to ride into _battle,_ do you?”

            He cupped her cheeks, forcing her to meet his eyes. The circlet felt impossible heavier as it tilted backwards. “We can discuss that later, but _this_ ,” he waved a hand at the silver gown, the silver armor, “ _this_ is for the dragon queen. When you meet her, I want her to see a northern warrior, a Dornish princess…a queen that can rival even her. And that is all _before_ she knows what you can do.”

            _And if I’m not that?_ Sansa wondered as Oberyn kissed her again, hungirly and tasting of desire. She remembered the wolf running across her ribs, the speared sun pressed against her temple. _What then, if I am not your northern warrior, your Dornish princess…_ Her stomach flipped violently as she realized, as Oberyn’s hands grasped her hips and drew her flush against him. _If I am not that girl you say I am, I am nothing more than a prize. A gift for the dragon queen._ The thought sent a rod up her spine, and her jaw hardened. Sansa broke away from Oberyn’s kiss.

            “Forgive me, Oberyn. I fear I am tired. Perhaps another night…”

            His eyes darkened, perhaps in disappointment, but he nodded. “A warrior needs her rest,” he teased, kissing her lightly. “Would you like an escort back to your pavilion?”

            She shook her head, smiling apologetically. Sansa then gave him her leave, pressing through the tent flaps and out into the camp. The sky had darkened into a dusky purple while she was inside, and now torches dropped long, stretching shadows onto the sandy path. As Sansa moved away from Oberyn’s tent, her pace grew faster and faster until she was sprinting along the lines, hair streaming away from her and circlet threatening fly away. Sansa tore it from her head as she ran, wishing that she could do the same to the metal trapping the air inside her ribs.  Shadows reached for her ankles, men called out in surprise, but she ignored them all with her heart beating rapidly in her ears, drowning everything out but the need to _run, run, run._ The lines became a blur, from the torches or tears she did not know, and Sansa ran and ran and ran until finally she stumbled into her pavilion. She fell to her knees as one hand clawed at the breastplate’s clasps, the other digging into the dirt, clinging to the earth.

            Finally the metal fell away, and Sansa heaved against the dirt, sucking in breaths and sobs alike. Tears splattered the ground before her, and Sansa found herself desperately, wilding wiping at her cheeks.

 “It’s too much,” she whispered to herself, rocking back on her haunches and hugging her knees.

            _Don’t be foolish_ , a voice inside her head sneered as her eyes wandered around the empty pavilion. _Oberyn’s wife wouldn’t cry at a crown and armor. She would wear it proudly, bravely, like a true queen._

            The voice was right—Sansa knew she was being foolish, knew she was acting like a silly little girl. It was just that the thought of being presented before the dragon queen like a pretty _trinket_ had sent her mind into a whirl of questions and worry and fear. She didn’t know if she could be the warrior her husband wanted…she didn’t know if she could be _herself_ anymore.

            Her breaths had begun to even out, and Sansa rose shakily to her legs, gripping a table’s edge for support. The thrown-off breastplate glinted up at her, the circlet’s jewel winking beside it, both forgotten, cast aside in the dirt.

            Sansa glanced down at herself as well, biting her lip at the streaks of dirt on the pretty silk. Out of all her husband’s gifts, this one she did not mind. The cool, water-like fabric fluttered against her legs, and Sansa only prayed the molten, weightless silver would wash clean again. She did not want Oberyn finding out about her reaction.

            Something wet and cold bumped against the back of her leg, and Sansa turned to see White Wind smiling up at her in the way only the pup could. A smile broke across Sansa’s tear-stained face. She bent down, resting her forehead against the pup’s and breathing in her warm scent.

            “Would you like to get away too?” she asked sadly, running a hand over White Wind’s silky back. The pup danced in a circle, tail wagging.

            Sansa laughed weakly, throat burning after her earlier tears. She wasn’t really allowed to take the pup far from camp, but with all the new men and the drunken, raucous chaos that would surely ensue tonight…

            _Let’s get away_ , she thought, rising and making her way to the pavilion’s flaps. She steeled herself, squared her shoulders and mustered up whatever calm remained inside her. _Even if we must return, we can be free from just one night._  

            Carefully and quietly as she could, Sansa wove through the men’s tents and towards the outer edge, where thin trees rose up from the rocky soil. Here the laughter and torchlight just barely fell, instead giving way to pale moonlight and the soft call of birds whispering in the night. The path she took wound its way deeper and deeper through the wood until it grew so dense the path curved at every other tree to cut through. White Wind bounded off ahead, and Sansa laughed as the pup moved joyfully, uninhibited by the frenzy of camp or the slippery marble floors of the palace.

            As she walked, Sansa breathed deeply, letting her lungs fill with the much-needed air. She paused to slip off her sandals, letting them swing from one hand and letting her toes sink into the soft earth. She didn’t know where this path might lead, nor did she care. All she wanted was to get away, to get away from the brink of war and the men, from her lonely pavilion and her husband’s gifts, if they could even be called that. The way the moon hit the trees, pale and white and almost silver, brought a memory swimming before her eyes. She was at home, her true home, and a summer’s snow coated the wintery landscape with ice. Trees froze into translucent steel, branched cracked softly in the breeze, booted feet slid dangerously, delightfully on the hardened earth.

            _I told him about that,_ Sansa realized as she followed White Wind around a bend. Her hand ran across a trunk as she passed, and a true smile broke out across her face. _I told Jaime of home once, of Winterfell when I was a little girl._ That was when the thought of becoming Oberyn’s queen never crossed her mind, when Dorne was a foreign place and storms and memories still haunted her dreams. It was Jamie who had held her then, not with his arms yet, but with his ears. With the way he would listen to her talk as the storm raged above, the way she would fall asleep, knowing he sat just inches from her, separated by the cabin door. _If only things could be that way once more…_

            There was a cracking of twigs, then a voice. “Sansa?”

            She stopped, eyes searching the shadows of the small clearing she had stumbled into. A figure emerged from the shadows.

            “Jaime…” Her voice caught, and Sansa watched White Wind bound forward to greet the knight. Sansa noticed the fallen sword a few paces back, glinting a pale gold in the moonlight.

            “I didn’t know you came here to practice,” she said quietly, eyes falling back to him.

            “It’s easier without the others watching.” At Sansa’s confused look, he raised his right hand. The gold flashed in her eyes.

            Not knowing what to say, Sansa simply nodded. She understood what it was like to want to be alone, to not want to pretend to be someone you’re not. It was why she was here tonight, though she never dreamed of meeting Jaime here. She hadn’t truly spoken to him in over a month, and now…her stomach gave a flip. Now she didn’t know how she felt about it. About _him._ Her body seemed to know something though, and her skin pricked with goosebumps that had  nothing to do with the cool breeze.

            Jaime bent down, running a hand along White Wind’s silky ears. The dog nipped playfully at his hand, and a sad smile came across his face. “Have you been practicing yourself?” he asked, rising from the earth.

            _My warging…_ Sansa’s lips parted, and her eyes fell to her silver skirts. “I—I have not.” She took a breath, sharp and pained, before continuing. “I fear I am not able to anymore. Not without…without you. Without you holding me.” She hadn’t meant to be so candid, but the words tumbled out without a pause. Like she was throwing out a lure, hoping desperately for the only person who understood her to catch on, to draw her close. Her eyes flickered to his arms, to the spot against his chest where she had spent so many days, so many nights. To where she felt safe… _to where I felt loved._

             “Would you care to practice now?” he asked softly. He glanced down—the  dog danced playfully behind her skirts at his words. “I’m done for tonight, and White Wind surely would not mind.”

            “Surely not,” she whispered back, feeling the words catch strangely in her throat. “But Jaime…” Her eyes wandered around the clearing. It was so terribly peaceful here, she realized, so terribly false. A great army lay just beyond the pale, weeping trees whose leaves shone silver in the night. The breeze kissed at them softly, ruffling them like feathers. No war would touch this small, insignificant spot of earth into which she curled her toes…but a war would touch her.

             “Jaime, how long will you hold me?” The words fell out tasting of despair, and she did not want to know his answer.

            A silence stretched between them, and the moon and sun seemed to race endlessly across the sky, chasing and chasing but never catching, before the sky’s whirling stopped and Jaime spoke and time fell back to earth.

            “ _Forever_.”

            He closed the distance between them, and without a pause or care or hint of hesitation, Jaime’s lips met hers. The sandals in her hand fell away with a _thud,_ and Sansa reached up to hold the nape of his neck, to draw him close. He kissed her and Sansa shuddered, and with a start and a helpless, foolish grin, she felt him shudder too.

            _Forever._ She didn’t know how long that was. Perhaps a day, a night, a year…perhaps no time at all but the fleeting moment in this clearing, beneath a silver moon and encircled by silver trees, trapped in Jamie’s arms once more. Silver armor was beautiful and sharp and fierce, but it was not her.

            _This_ , she thought as she kissed him deeper, _this is me._


	23. Chapter Twenty Three

The tent flaps parted, and Oberyn looked up from his parchments. “She is ready?” The man nodded, and Oberyn smiled. “Send her in, then.”

            Through the orange silks came Sansa, and Oberyn rose when his eyes fell upon her. He hadn’t been sure of the gifts when he’d had the seamstresses and armorers make them, but now… _now not even this dragon queen could reject her._ In the dawn’s grey light his wife’s willowy frame shimmered in the silver silks, which ran like water over her hips, casting an eerily beautiful glow on her pale skin. Curls and braids tumbled from her head, where his silver-and-gold circlet rested like it made to sit upon such a creature. As she stepped inside and the shadows fell away, Oberyn frowned.

            “What of the breastplate?” he asked as she stood before him. Her hands clenched each other, and her clear blue eyes skirted away from his gaze.  

            “I—I wasn’t sure if…if it would be appropriate. I had it left in my pavilion.”

            Oberyn raised a brow. Sansa was breathtaking without it, but he had wanted Daenerys to see a _warrior_ in his wife, not just a pretty face. He told Sansa as much, and a blush bloomed on her cheeks.

            “I’m sorry. I could go fetch it—”

            “There’s no need,” Oberyn assured her with a tight smile, gesturing for her to sit across from him.

            Her face lit up as she settled into the seat, legs crossed before her like a child. “Really?”

            Oberyn laughed at  her response. “Of course, my princess. You are to meet the dragon queen shortly. I will send one of my men to bring it here. Besides, I wanted to speak to you before we head out.” He snapped his fingers, and when his man entered, Oberyn gave the command. When he was gone and the tent’s silken flap fluttered closed, Oberyn returned his gaze to his wife. He noted the way she bit her lip, but assumed it had more to due with nerves than her silliness about the breastplate.

            “Do you remember what I told you, when Ellaria’s treasons were brought to light?”

            Sansa shifted uncomfortably. “That I would be the one to…to kill Lord Baelish.”

            “ _Littlefinger_ ,” he corrected her, spitting the name out like poison. “Call the monster what he is, Sansa. We deserve as much.” Oberyn thought back on the two attacks, and his fingers curled into a fist. He stared at the hand, eyes darkening, blood swelling in his ears. He could feel the sword right now, its cool steel heavy and powerful in his hand. _No one_ would steal what was his again, not after his dear Elia was taken from him. Not after his life with Ellaria was over too.

            A hand rested gently over his, and Oberyn looked up in surprise. Her gesture was calming, but still there was a wideness to her eyes, a fear to her gaze. “Oberyn…at the time I agreed to do this deed, but now…”

            Oberyn’s hand flipped over, and he encircled her slim wrist with his fingers. “Now it is more important that ever,” he said, tugging gently. Sansa rose from her seat and allowed him to pull her over to his own, guiding her to perch on his knees. He tucked a loose strand behind her ear, knuckles brushing her cheek.

            “Do you want to show the dragon queen what you are made of?” he asked. When she did not answer, nor meet his eyes, Oberyn shifted her closer and raised her chin with his fingers. “That you are not afraid of this disgusting creature, that you are strong enough to serve not only her, but yourself as well? I arranged to have Ellaria lure Littlefinger into our camp tomorrow evening, where he will wait in my tent, thinking it yours. And then, my princess, will we have our vengeance.”

            Sansa’s eyes widened, and with a bitten lip, she nodded slightly. “I…I will think on it.”

            _Think on it? What is there to think about?_ For the life of him, Oberyn could not imagine a world in which she would not want to take vengeance on this man. Oberyn’s jaw hardened, and just as his fingers gripped ever so slightly harder around her chin, the _chink_ of metal and the quiet _thud_ of footsteps sounded from behind.

            “My prince,” said the man, bowing his head. His eyes flickered up to Sansa caught in Oberyn’s grip before falling back to the breastplate in his arms. “I apologize for interrupting.”

            Oberyn waved a hand dismissively. “Are our horses saddled?”

            The man nodded, and Oberyn’s heart swelled. _This is her moment. Our moment._ “Good. Leave us, then, and see that the Ser Jaime, Myrcella, and the babe are ready as well.”

            When he was gone, Sansa asked in a small voice, “They are coming with us?”

            After drawing her closer and giving her a reassuring kiss, Oberyn nodded and said, “Just as precautionary measures, my princess. They will be far safer with us than alone at camp.” In truth, he wanted Daenerys to see the extent of Dorne’s power, wanted her to know that his house held _three_ Lannisters, with one being the bitch queen’s own brother, and the others her young daughter and granddaughter. He had no intent to allow any harm to come to either girls, but Oberyn knew Sansa had a fondness for them even greater than his own.

            This seemed to calm her nerves, and Oberyn grinned up at her. “Then let us go. But first…” Oberyn guided Sansa back to her feet, then he reached across the table to move the breastplate his man had left closer. Standing behind her, Oberyn swept her wild curls aside and let his hands smooth over her shoulders, feeling the silver silk ripple like water beneath his touch.

            “Are you ready?” he murmured against her cheek as his hands drifted lower, fitting perfectly into the small of her waist. She released a breath instinctively at his touch, spine curving away, hips and shoulders pressing into his own. Oberyn pressed a kiss into her exposed neck, and he could almost _taste_ the fire whispering against her prickled skin.

            Before she could answer, Oberyn reached for the breastplate and wrapped it around her ribs, drawing her flush against him. This time her gasp of air was audible, and Oberyn could not help but flush with pride as he secured the buckles, as he tied the leather cords set like those of a bodice. When he was done, Oberyn’s hands found the small of her waist once more, but now they ran over smooth, cool metal instead of silk seeped with her body’s warmth.

            “ _Now_ you are ready,” he said in low voice, answering his own question. He turned her in his hands, and as she spun to face him, coppery hair flashed against silver, moon-white skin glowed like fire beneath the tent’s blood-orange canopy. He turned her and saw just a glimpse of the vision he had had so long ago, as he sailed to Dorne with a frightened girl he had made his wife.

            _It was not just a dream_ , Oberyn told himself as he pulled her close, kissing her forehead. _And this is just the beginning._

            With a smile, Oberyn took her hand, squeezing her fingers. “Let us meet the dragon queen.”

 

* * *

 

 

            It was near sunset when they finally pulled their horses up, though Sansa was confused at first as to why they had stopped. The road they had followed for more than an hour wound its way through the dusty countryside, past sun-yellow dunes, through barren fields of high grasses and stringy, leafless trees she had never seen before. Now Sansa raised a hand to her eyes, trying in vain to peer through the sun’s blinding light. As she did so, the breastplate dug painfully into her side, and not for the first time today did she chide herself for not being more adamant about not wearing the armor. When Myrcella had seen it, her eyes had lit up, a gasp escaping her lips.

            “You look like Nymeria,” the girl had said from inside her litter as she rode past the open window. At Sansa’s confused look, she had added in proud voice, “You know, the warrior-queen  who conquered Dorne. Trystane told me all about her when I first arrived. Mother never let me wear armor, and I only _wish_ Trystane would gift me some as lovely as yours.”

            Jaime had only frowned when he saw her atop her pale mare before quickly riding past to join the party’s rear guard. He had caught her eye though, and for the briefest moment Sansa thought she saw a sadness in his emerald gaze. Too soon did his eyes flick away, though if it was from her attire or the previous night in the clearing, she could not say.

            _Nor do I want to_ , Sansa thought miserably as her hand dropped. It was hopeless to see past the ridge up ahead, and Oberyn had ridden off some time ago. She tried to catch a glimpse of Jaime now, but his head was turned away, and he rode close to the litter besides. Everything was so jumbled in her head, and Sansa only prayed this meeting with Daenerys Targaryen wouldn’t make things worse.

            Sansa sighed, trying once more to see why they had stopped. Her pretty mare shifted beneath her, and just as Sansa was about to wheel her around to find Oberyn, a clatter of hoofs on rock sounded from up ahead.

            Sansa gave a start. “That can’t be…” With a gasp that nearly sucked all air from her caged ribs, Sansa kicked her mare forward, guiding her towards the figure emerging from the sun-drenched ridge. The din of the litter and Jamie’s horse quickly followed behind.

            When she finally reigned to a halt beside her husband, Sansa’s lips parted in shock. Tyrion Lannister stood before her from atop a dappled horse, surrounded by two guards in pitch-black armor. As his eyes drank her in, Sansa’s did the same. The man she had been forced to marry had a jaw covered in a wild, golden beard, and there was a light in his eyes Sansa had never once seen at the Red Keep.

            “My lady…my _princess_ , I should say. And Prince Oberyn.” He bowed his head, first to her, and then to her husband. “Queen Daenerys waits just a mile ahead. I have been sent to bring you to her.”

            When Sansa glanced to her right, she saw that Oberyn was nearly as surprised as she was. “I did not hear that you had entered her service.”

            Tyrion smiled. “Then perhaps we are doing something right.” As he said this, his eyes flickered to Sansa. “No one knows what you have done with your bride as well. You look lovely, Princess Sansa…lovely and strong.”

            “She is.” Oberyn gave the Imp a look she did not quite understand before nodding to the road ahead. “I would like to hear your tales just as you would like to hear mine, Lord Tyrion, but first, take us to meet your queen.”

            Tyrion nodded. “Of course. If you would just follow me…” His voice trailed off, and Sansa turned in her saddle to follow his gaze. Jaime had ridden up from the rear, armor flashing brilliantly in her eyes. When she turned back around, she saw Tyrion give a hard swallow.

            Oberyn nudged his horse closer, and said quietly in her ear, “We will ride ahead while Tyrion and Ser Jaime catch up.”

            Sansa nodded, then allowed her mare to follow behind Tyrion’s two guards. As they ambled on at a comfortable pace, her heart gave a small twinge. _If Jaime tells Tyrion about us, then Tyrion tells Oberyn…_

Before she could dwell too long on it, the tavern Tyrion spoke of swam forward through the darkening landscape. She could make out a group of horses and more iron-clad figures up ahead, and by the tavern’s door, a flash of silver.

            Sansa’s stomach flipped, but she tried to push the madly swirling thoughts aside. _First, the dragon queen._

* * *

 

 

Daenerys Targaryen slid down from her milk-white mare, landing softly on her booted feet. Oberyn and Sansa did the same, and try as she might to land just as gracefully, her body lurched sideways as she dismounted, the breastplate cutting into her waist.

            Oberyn steadied her, and Sansa quickly straightened to face the dragon queen. She set her jaw, tried to look every bit the warrior Oberyn wanted her to be. Daenerys’s violet eyes traveled over her, and Sansa forced herself to not bite her lip.

            Finally the queen broke the cool silence with her light, chime-like voice. “Prince Oberyn, we meet again.” Her head bowed, silver curls falling from her silk-clad shoulders.

            “My queen, let me introduce—”

            “I know who she is,” Daenerys said calmly, cutting him off. “Princess Sansa Martell, wife of Dorne’s younger brother and daughter of Eddard Stark, the man who rebelled against my father’s rule.” She smiled and tilted her head, though the light in her gentle voice failed to reach her eyes. “I don’t want to play games, Sansa. I’m here to rule, and I want to know if you’re here to help.”

            Everything she had planned to say stuck in her throat, but before she could choke something out, Oberyn stepped in front of her. “While I was away from Sunspear, my wife learned of powers within her far greater than you could ever dream of. She has the gifts of old, your grace. Gifts of the far north not seen in hundreds of years. She is a warg…would _that_ be of any help?” He gave the queen a smug smile, and his hand found Sansa’s.

            Daenerys raised a brow, amusement playing on her lips. “Your wife can speak for herself, Prince Oberyn.” Her eyes fell to Sansa. “Come with me, and I will determine if these…gifts are of any use.” She gestured to the tavern door, and Sansa looked questioningly to her husband.

            There was a darkness to his eyes, but Oberyn nodded curtly. “Remember what we discussed,” he whispered in her ear. He kissed her cheek, then released her to follow the dragon queen.

            With a shaky breath, Sansa stepped inside. Daenerys didn’t pause until they wound their way to a private room far in the back. Men ogled as they went, but none dared to speak a word or lay a finger. Finally Sansa found herself in a small chamber, with only a glowing fireplace and simple table set with a pitcher and two goblets. Daenerys closed the door softly behind them.

            “You can take that off now,” she said in a light, even tone.

            “I’m sorry,” she stammered. “Take off…?”

            Daenerys smiled, a true smile that made her violet eyes dance in the warm light. “That silly breastplate. Trust me, my princess, if a man forced me to wear such a thing I would burn him alive.” She shrugged, then gently positioned Sansa before her. Her fingers moved deftly through the laces as she spoke. “I suppose it helps if you have dragons, though.”

            With a weak laugh, Sansa helped remove the silver cage. She took a deep breath, the air trembling as it rushed into her lungs. _Who is this queen_? she wondered as Daenerys moved to take a seat. _One minute she is like ice, and the next…_ If there was one thing Sansa knew about queens, it was that they could change from kind to terrible in an instant. _I will have to be careful,_ she thought, taking the chair beside her. _Especially with a queen with dragons._

“Would you care for some?” the queen asked, interrupting her thoughts.

            She shook her head at the raised pitcher, and Daenerys shrugged. As she poured herself some of the blood-red wine, her eyes drifted back to Sansa. She studied her carefully, but did not speak until she settled down and took a deep swallow.

            "You’re shaking like a leaf,” the queen mused over her goblet. “I suppose you know why I wanted to speak with you, and your husband must have told you what we discussed if it does not go well…do you think me cold?"

            Sansa gazed at the silver queen in surprise, watched the faint moonlight from a nearby window dance across her cheekbones. "No. You are most fair, your grace."

            Daenerys smiled lightly, though this time it failed to reach her eyes. “Beauty is just another kind of coldness. I would have thought you'd learned that by now, Lady Stark."

 _Princess Martell,_ Sansa wanted to say. _That’s who I’m supposed to be._ She bit her lip though, not bothering to correct her title.

            "Our mothers gave us this beauty," the queen continued on. "Young bodies, sparkling eyes, pretty lips...they say we're blessed. That it is a gift, to be so fair." Daenerys turned, her eyes roaming over Sansa. "But for whom? It is men who receive this gift, in truth. Pretty girls all over the world become brides and ladies and queens...we become trinkets for men. Pretty silver trinkets to show off and admire." She leaned forward, and her fingers brushed the loose curls from Sansa’s temple. "Is it a such a surprise that we grow cold?"

            Sansa shivered. “Is that why you wanted to speak with me? To discuss beauty?” She took a deep breath. “Oberyn said you need me to be useful, and now I suppose I am. I am a warg, your grace—”

            Daenerys cut her off with a raised hand. “In truth I do not care about your abilities in _battle,_ child. In fact, I could care less if you were a trained warrior, or just a girl dressed up in armor.” Her eyes fell to the discarded breastplate on the floor, and Sansa blushed. “It is _you_ , I need to be sure of, Sansa. Your character, your bravery…without it, my alliance with the north is meaningless.”

            “Then why…why would you tell my husband that you need me to be…to be…” Searching for the words, Sansa’s eyes fell on the breastplate. “To be _that_?”

            The queen gave a short, bell-like laugh. “Men look for power wherever they can, and if it not there, they imagine it to be. It was your husband’s idea to dress you up like a knight and parade you before me in silver, not mine. _Beauty_ , remember? Daenerys laughed again. “Now tell me…” She reached across the table, taking Sansa’s hands in her own. “Who are you? Who is Sansa Stark, not this Sansa Martell that Oberyn so desperately wants you to be?”

            Sansa searched the queen’s face, to her surprise seeing only kindness on her lovely features. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I just don’t know anymore…”

            “Is it your husband?”

            After a paused, she nodded slightly. “Like you said, he wants me to be someone I’m not. I didn’t realize at first, but now after Jaime—” With a sharp intake of air, Sansa bit her lip. _I shouldn’t have—he killed her father—_

            Daenerys’s eyes hardened slightly, but her fingers squeezed Sansa’s in encouragement. “Is this Jaimie Lannister you speak of?”

            Sansa tried to draw her hands away, but the queen held fast. “I didn’t mean for anything to happen, I swear—please, do not tell Oberyn—”

            “I won’t,” she assured in a soothing tone. Her eyes fell to their joined hands, and they took on a far-away look. “We do not chose whom we love,” she said quietly.

            _Love_. Sansa swallowed thickly, and her heartbeat quickened till it beat feverishly inside her ribs, just waiting to burst free. _Love, is that what I feel?_

            “I…I just do not know what to do,” said Sansa, her voice strained.

            The dragon queen rose and stared at the burning hearth, lost deeper in her hidden thoughts. “When I was a child, I wanted to be free. I wanted to run wild in the city with tangles in my hair and friends trailing at my feet,” she began softly. “But my brother did not allow it—I was to be kept inside like a porcelain doll, prim and proper and lovely for him to play with…When I grew older—a maiden, they called me—I was sold to a Dothraki warrior. He took me on my wedding night and stole whatever innocence my brother had left. I became a warrior _because_ I became his queen. Not by my own choice.” Daenerys glanced back over her shoulder, smiling sadly.

            “All my life I was told what to do and who to be. Even as my husband’s body burned, Ser Jorah warned me of my choices. But I was sick of warnings and men and fear. I ignored him that day…and do you know what happened, Sansa?”

            Sansa’s voice faltered, and she shook her head.

            Daenerys turned back towards the flames, seeing her past leap and spit from the fire’s burning embers. “I stepped out of the cold pyre come morning with three dragons at my breast. I became a mother of three at the age of fourteen. All these men, they told and warned and said…and eventually, I said no. And I became the dragon queen.”

            “I did not know how it happened, your grace,” said Sansa quietly. “But still, I do not understand—”

            “I am sorry; my advice is unclear,” muttered Daenerys. She sat down in her chair and reached for Sansa’s hands once more. “Let me put it this way…” She cleared her throat, staring out the window to the flickering night beyond.

            “The septons say to look to the gods when we are lost,” she began, slowly, as if unsure. “But the gods are cruel—who do girls like us have to look to?”

            “The maiden, I was told…”

            “Yes, we have the maiden…but is that all we are? Blushing girls, innocent to the world and captives of men from the time we cling to their arms, to the time we bleed on our wedding nights? Do we look to the mother, who prides selflessness in the face of danger? Men say and say and say who we ought to be, when that woman does not exist.” She turned over Sansa’s hands, smoothing the cold skin with her strangely warm palms. “It is only _you_ , Sansa, who exists. There are no gods to look to in this world. There is only you…and it is only you who can make these choices now. And it will not be easy, child. You have a duty to Oberyn, to this war. But you also have one to yourself. To your heart. To Jaime. It is your choice, Sansa. Remember that.”          

           

* * *

 

 

            Back outside the tavern, Sansa moved through the torch-lit darkness to stand by her husband’s side. She could not make out his face in the shadows but for his eyes, which glowed proud in the flickering light.

            Sansa understood the queen’s words, and now she let them fill her mind, swirling and tumbling in a great sea until one swam to the surface, glinting beneath the moon above. _He is my duty…one that I was raised for. Born for. I made this choice long ago, and as much as it hurts…_ Sansa grasped Oberyn’s hand, her chin aloof as she met Daenerys’s eye. Before tonight she had been so sure that it was Jaime, just Jaime who she wanted. And he still was, but the queen's words reminded her of something, of a duty that went beyond herself, that went beyond her heart. It was not vengeance she sought for her bleeding home. It was _justice_. And if she had to continue on by Oberyn's side to get it, she would. She couldn't look back. Not anymore. 

            Daenerys gave her a knowing look, and sad smile passed over her face before the icy queen returned. She nodded in understanding, then turned to Oberyn. “I will ally with Dorne,” she said in a clear voice. “And the north with ride beside us.” She bowed her head to the two of them, silver curls swinging from her shoulders. “Let it begin.”

            _Let it begin_ , Sansa repeated in her head. She remembered Oberyn’s words, of his plan to lure Littlefinger into their camp. _And it will start tomorrow.  
_ A coldness seeped into her belly, and Sansa only gripped her husband's hand tighter.

_It has to._


	24. Chapter Twenty Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pretty dark, so just a heads-up. This was a difficult one to write, but I hope I served it justice. As always, thank you for reading.

“Is it done?”

            Oberyn laughed. Sansa sat before him on the bed, eyes closed and lips puckered slightly. Copper ringlets tumbled down her shoulders, and he wanted nothing more than to sink his hands into them, to draw her close and crush his mouth into hers right then and there. Only _that_ , considering the circumstances, would be absurdly foolish, even if he seemed to disagree down below.

            “Almost, my princess.” He steadied the tiny brush in his hands before dipping it into the crystal vial. Once the excess potion had dripped from its tip, he raised it to Sansa’s lips, gently and painstakingly slowly painting the last spot.  

            _Just so_. Oberyn smiled, admiring his work. The gods knew he had had enough practice painting Ellaria’s lips with the tricky potions, only then it was potions to make one feel _alive_ , not to bring the kiss of death. Poisons of all sorts were a Dornish specialty. _A fact that whoremongering bastard is soon to learn. And quite well at that._  

            Setting the vial aside, Oberyn kneeled by his wife’s seat, running his palms up her silk-covered thighs, smoothing the pale flesh of her arms beneath his hands. “You are beautiful,” he muttered, leaning over to kiss the underside of one arm. His lips traveled lower, ghosting over her porcelain skin until they found her wrist. Oberyn kissed her swirling, midnight veins. “ _Beautiful._ ”

            “Are you sure about this, Oberyn?”

            He looked up, surprised at her expression. Her brows knotted together, and her painted lips twisted into an anxious frown. “If you do as I said, everything will be fine…on your part, that is.” He flashed her a wicked grin, and pressed a feather-light kiss once more into her wrist. "Ellaria will draw him into camp; the man is foolish enough to risk it, as he believes I've taken leave for the night. After that, the rest will be simple."

            “But…but what if—”

            Oberyn rose to his feet, cupping her cheeks in his hands. She fell silent at his touch.

            “You are beautiful and strong, Sansa. This bastard _deserves_ this, and it is your duty to serve his justice.” Oberyn’s thumbs worked at the worry lines etched into her forehead. “And remember, I will be right outside should you need me.” His eyes fell upon her parted, stained lips, and he smiled. _And I will take that kiss later, once it is done and the poison has worn off._ It was only that thought that kept Oberyn from ravishing those lips right now. 

            Sansa smiled weakly with a nod, and after one last lingering look, he stepped away. As Oberyn made his way towards the tent’s hidden flap, a grin stretched across his face. The next man to come in would not meet the same sweet fate.

            _At least,_ Oberyn realized as he slipped through and the silks fluttered shut behind him, _not for long._ His grin widened at the thought.

* * *

 

 

            The tent flapped open, and Sansa straightened her back as Littlefinger stepped inside. She hadn’t seen the man in nearly a year, but the only hint of age that came through was in the wisps of silver by his temples. He stopped just feet before her, his cold grey eyes appraising her up and down. Sansa willed herself not to squirm beneath his gaze, but still she wished the Dornish style of dress was less revealing. Especially in the presence of a man like this. Her skin crawled, and she was once again that little girl in King’s Landing, that little girl thrown from the clutches of a monster to the hands of a man she hardly knew.

            _You are not_ , Sansa told herself as his dark eyes lingered on her chest. _You are not, you are not. You are Sansa Stark of Winterfell or Sansa Martell of Dorne, but never that weak little girl again._ Oh, how she willed it to be true. Still she felt the color drain from her face, felt the beads of sweat gathering at her back.

            “You look as if you’re waiting to meet with the Stranger,” said Littlefinger in that low, mysterious voice of his. His eyes drifted back to her face.

            “Perhaps I am,” Sansa returned, keeping her gaze fierce.

            Littlefinger smirked and began to circle her, hands clasped behind his back. Sansa did not move as he walked. _Let him look_ , she wanted to say. _Let him see who I have become._

            “You look less pale, my Lady,” he said quietly. His fingers brushed against her back, and she could feel a lock of hair being pulled away through his fingers. As the hair lifted, Littlefinger inhaled deeply, breathing in the scent.

            “I am a Martell now.”

            The piece of hair dropped, and he released satisfied sigh. Littlefinger stepped up to her side. “Not for that long.”

            “Longer than I was a Baelish,” she shot back. _Never. I was never yours, and I never will be._

            He chuckled. “You think I wanted to marry you, lovely girl?” he whispered in her ear. They were at the same height, so his lips ghosted over her skin as he spoke. “Just because I wanted to _fuck_ you?”

            “Prince Oberyn says—”

            “ _Prince Oberyn_? Is it not _my husband_ yet?”

            Sansa squeezed her eyes shut. _I will not let him win at his games. Not anymore._ “Prince Oberyn is a dutiful husband,” she said firmly as her eyes opened once more.  

            Suddenly, his hand flew to her belly, the coldness of his palm sinking through the thin silk. Sansa gasped, but he did not move it away. Another hand snaked to the back of her neck, locking her in place as he whispered against her ear.

            “Dutiful, is it?” His fingers dug into her stomach as his hand rubbed back and forth. “And yet he leaves you without a bastard in your belly.”

            “Please, Lord Baelish, you’re hurting me—”

            He pinched her neck harder, silencing her as he yanked her head backward against his chest. “I could have shown you what it means to be dutiful,” he hissed. “I could have pleased you in ways your filthy Dornishman never could, my lady. You were always meant to be _mine_ , just as your mother was.”

            Sansa breathed through her nose, willing herself to stay calm. _You must win_. Slowly, she brought her left hand up and covered Littlefinger’s hand at her belly with her own. Her fingers worked their way between his, and she heard him let out a _hiss_ in surprise and pleasure. “The only bastard I want here,” she said, guiding his hand across her stomach. “Is yours.”

            For a moment, nothing happened, and Sansa feared he did not buy it. Then, as quickly as it had come, his hand released her neck and wrapped around her waist. His fingers now clasped together, encircling her in his arms. Sansa forced her body to remain relaxed, to not fight even as every nerve and instinct screamed at his touch.

            Littlefinger’s chin nuzzled against her neck, and his hot breath leeched onto her prickling skin. “I always knew it would be like this,” he said softly, stroking her hips. “I would one day have a beautiful Tully maid in my arms.” His lips grazed her skin, so soft she thought it would end there. But as soon as his lips parted, Littlefinger pushed her roughly forward. Sansa stumbled to the edge of the bed, falling so that her upper body pressed against the mattress while her lower legs bent against the frame.

            Just as his hands began to push her dress forward, Sansa said, breathless, “Wait, Lord Baelish—”

            “I have waited long enough for this,” he growled into her ear. Sansa could feel the air on her exposed backside, and she fought every instinct to cover herself from his eyes.

            He had paused, and Sansa took the opportunity to push herself up on her elbows, ignoring the sharp wood that pressed against her legs. She craned her neck to look back at him and saw the dark lust in his eyes, the fistfuls of wrinkled silk in hands. “As have I…let me look at you, my lord. As you did that night so long ago.” _When you tried to rape me,_ she so desperately wanted to add. _When you began this nightmare._ She pleaded with her eyes, tried to match the lust that swallowed his. _And now I will look upon you as it ends._

            Littlefinger narrowed his eyes for a moment before grabbing her roughly by the shoulder, pulling her into a standing position and turning her around. They were face to face now, and Littlefinger did not miss a beat as his mouth went hungrily for hers. Sansa quickly turned her face to the side so it was her neck he kissed— _it is not time, just a bit longer_ , she told herself.

            Sansa allowed him to lead her to the bed, his mouth never leaving her neck. He pushed her down and growled against her throat, teeth grazing the place where Sansa could almost hear the blood pumping, fast and thick and wet. Littlefinger was atop her now, his weight crushing her ribs as his arms caged her beneath him.

            “Is this how you dreamed it?” he whispered, mouth traveling lower has his fingers tore open her bodice. “When we first met, when you were but a shy maiden, is this how you saw me?” His eyes lifted from her chest, and he stared at her with those dark, unknowable eyes as his hand groped at her breast. “Is it, little wolf?”

            Sansa smiled up at him and wrapped a hand around his neck, gently playing with the cropped hair at its nape. “Exactly like this.” She closed her eyes and pulled him close. He took her lips, but she would take so much more.

            He pulled away, and Sansa froze in fear as he smiled back just as lustful as before. Her body stiffened beneath him, and she shut her eyes as he attacked her mouth once more, then her neck, her chest. His hands pushed up her skirts and there was a hardness against her thigh and a moan against her ear— _it didn’t work, it didn’t work, why has he not stopped, it didn’t—_

“What have you _done_?”

            Sansa opened her eyes at the croaked-out words. The hand on her thigh stilled, a tremor went through the one on her breast. And the man above her stared down with a terrible horror as a trail of crimson leaked slowly from his lips. It dripped down, splattering against her bare breast. His body convulsed, and a great gush of blood spilled from his mouth. There was another shudder, a sharp breath, and his dark eyes grew grey once more. 

            A great weight fell upon her chest, but she did not feel a thing.

 

* * *

 

 

            As the tent flapped closed behind her, Oberyn sprang to his feet. A few meters away stood Jaime. The knight’s lips parted—in surprise, anger, fear?—and he made to rush towards her before stopping himself. It was not his place, and he knew it. As Oberyn ran forward, Sansa gazed out at the tents that littered her husband’s camp, as if seeing them clearly for the first time. She noted their likeness to the heavens above; It was sunset, and the sky was painted in blood.

            Sansa raised her hands, staring at her upturned palms. Someone had painted them as well, painted them in crimson. Only messy instead of beautiful.

            “My princess, are you hurt?” Oberyn’s strong hands closed around her shoulders, shaking her gently. Fear and concern were clearly etched across his face as his dark eyes took her in from head to toe. She must have looked a mess—swollen lips, a partially torn gown. Blood dried and clinging to her breast, to her hands.

            Sansa nodded, but she did not meet his eyes. The blood was thick in spots, so dark it glistened black. In others it smeared against her skin, bright and cheerful, like sweet summer cherries. “I am fine, my husband,” she said quietly.

            Oberyn released her shoulders and firmly took her chin in his fingers, forcing their eyes to meet. Sansa wanted to look away, to break free, but she knew it was not anger that motivated his use of force. “Then why is it that you shake?” he asked softly.

            _I’m shaking?_ Her hands swam clearer into view. A droplet oozed at the tip of one finger before flying violently to the side. _I am._ She tried to wrench her face free, but Oberyn held fast. “I—I do not wish to talk about it now.” Her eyes deliberately avoided his, staring off again into the painted distance. At least she couldn’t feel the blood there. The sky wasn’t hot and wet and slick, just red, red, red.

            _Oh, gods._ Should she be cursing? Praying? Weeping? Trembling, Sansa brought her hands to her skirts. She wiped them on the torn silk.

            Sansa didn’t know why she was being like this. She felt only numbness when she should have felt joy. Littlefinger was dead; it was what she wanted. What Oberyn wanted. It was vengeance, and it tasted bitter on her tongue.

            As her eyes wandered, she thought, for the briefest movement, that she saw Jaime go for his sword. They locked eyes—him, standing meters back, her, fixed in her husband’s grip—and his hand fell back to his side. _Jaime. Oh, Jaime…_

            “Look at me,” Oberyn whispered. “Please, my princess.”

            Sansa tore her gaze back. She could afford him that courtesy. “Does it give you pleasure?”

            Confusion crossed his face. “Does what?”

            “Killing.”

            Oberyn released her chin, instead cupping her face with both hands. “Killing is vengeance.”

            “And what does yours taste like?”

            He paused for a moment, fingers stroking her pale cheeks. “Like honeyed fruit or fiery wine. Like a woman’s skin or a woman’s kisses.” His eyes flicked down to her swollen lips. “That is what I taste when a man’s life ends at my hands.”

            Sansa so desperately wanted her vengeance to be as sweet, but her tongue felt only dry and raw. Nausea floated upwards, and her head spun. When Littlefinger’s body fell against hers, it’s warm breath escaping for the last time, she felt weightless. She felt free. But in the moments that passed right after, a great and unnamable force threw itself down upon her chest. It wrapped its claws around her throat, yanked a hook from navel to heart, and tore a bloody, gaping hole through her skin. The moment Littlefinger’s body truly collapsed against her breast, another weight replaced the old.

            She could not bring herself to answer her husband’s words, so instead Sansa brought her sticky hands to his own and gently pulled them off. Oberyn stared down at her—his eyes were sad, but Sansa doubted he knew the extent to which she pained. She did not even know herself—what person feels bad for killing their monster? As she stepped away, his fingers caught her own and gave a gentle squeeze before allowing her to slip away.

            Tears, foolish tears, began to pool in her eyes as she walked. She passed Jaime and looked up into his face. He stared back, and to her surprise, it was not the same sadness and pity that her husband wore. It was an understanding, a steadiness, and Sansa longed to trace its lines. But she could not—what comfort could her knight give that her husband could not? _He was right though…Jaime was right all along._

            Her gaze returned forwards, and Sansa stopped. Her hand found its way to her gown’s pocket, and she withdrew the small, cold object from its depths. As she stared ahead at the blood-red sky, the object fell from her fingers. When she had taken it, ripped it from his still-warm chest, it had been a prize. Now it was just another weight.

            She made it to the end of the row before her vision blurred and the sky melted into her hands, staining and stinging, trapping and suffocating in a sea of red. Her knees gave out, and Sansa fell to the earth. Tears streamed down her cheeks, down her neck, down her arms, but in the sun’s crimson light it was blood. Blood gushing like scarlet rivers from her eyes, blood pouring down her throat, blood filling her lungs and forcing out whatever air still clung desperately to her ribs.

            _Let me drown_. Sansa rocked forward, eyes squeezed shut to block it out. She sobbed, sobbed to the bloodied sky, sobbed to the crimson pool swallowing her whole. _Please, let me drown._

            The sky gave no response but for her cries echoed back.

 

* * *

 

 

            Jaime watched the girl as she walked away, arms clenched around her sides. He stepped up to where a silver object glinted up at him from beneath the setting sun. Picking it up, he gently turned it over in his palm.

            “What is this?” came Prince Oberyn’s low voice from behind. He stood over Jaime’s shoulder, staring at his hand.

            Jaime’s thumb brushed the cool surface, and he glanced back. “A mockingbird.”

            A cry of anguish sounded from the end of the row, and both men’s heads snapped up. The blood drained from Jaime’s face, and his fingers curled around the pin, digging into his flesh. His eyes flew to Oberyn. The man stared ahead at Sansa, at her small form, fallen to the ground as sobs shook her body.

            “You did this,” he began slowly, anger bubbling forward, flowing through his veins, racing towards his heart. “You _fucking_ did this to her.” He spat the words into the earth by the prince’s feet.

            Oberyn’s mouth gaped open, and he shook his head in disbelief. “She wanted vengeance, I was giving it to her, to us…”

            In a flash of rage, Jaime threw the mockingbird to the side. _Vengeance_? He wanted to laugh, to scream, to yell at the sheer absurdity of Oberyn’s words.

            Jaime’s phantom fingers itched, clawing their way into a fist. His golden hand rose into the air.

 _Vengeance._ There was a hell of enough of that to go around.

 


	25. Chapter Twenty Five

             She heard the fight break out, heard Jaime’s golden hand reach its mark with a sickening _crack_ , heard the shouts and curses, the song of steel moving swiftly through leather. She heard it and looked back just long enough to see the blood. A sob caught in her throat.

            _Blood, blood, blood…is that all I’m good for?_

Sansa raised her hands, gazing with fear at the sticky redness. Then her gaze fell lower, to the torn silks of her dress, still streaked, still bloodied and dirty and _red._ In her haste to get it off, she had only made things worse. It was everywhere—her hands, her arms, her skirts. Even the ground into which her knees now sunk had fallen victim to the blood. Sansa blinked, trying to clear to spots from her eyes. They remained though, red splatters against the burning sand, and Sansa sobbed again.

            She felt as though she’d never be clean again.

            With wobbling legs and a strength that could only have been leant from the sneering Stranger above, Sansa climbed to her feet. She stood there, eyes shut, ears helpless to the ring of steel, before her feet shuffled forward, first one step, then another.

            Men’s eyes followed her as she made her way down the endless rows, their voices dying off as she walked past. Sounds of joy flew from their lips and into a stretching silence; sounds of war disappeared into the bloody sky before her. One leapt into her path with kind-hearted words, but Sansa only brushed him off with well-trained courtesies and a pretty smile. Even now, the lessons of her youth remained. Cersei had trained her little bird well, it seemed, and not even blood could slide the mask from her face. Not even swollen lips could hold back the proper words from her tongue.

            She shuffled onward.

            Half dazed, half breaking, with whatever halves remained to her, Sansa found herself at the camp’s edge. Beyond the dunes, beyond the silent guards and flickering torches of an early night, the Sea of Dorne sat waiting, sparkling peacefully beneath the bleeding sky.

            Sansa paused. She stared at her hands once more. The blood had dried now, itching where it caked beneath her fingernails, flaking then falling from her trembling hands like ash.

            Her eyes turned back to the sea. _Surely it is enough to wash it all away._ All she wanted was to feel clean again, to feel herself once more.

            A guard’s voice called to her from the path. “Princess Sansa—”

            She turned to him, and the man fell silent. His eyes drifted up and down her body, and Sansa wanted to cry at how he looked at her, like she was some wild animal, something to be feared and left alone.

            He swallowed thickly, then nodded.

            Her legs carried her towards the sea, luring her outwards towards the waves. Deeper and deeper she went until the water lifted her from the swirling sand below, catching her skirts until they rippled out upon the swelling crests. The silk fanned out to leave her thighs bare, and the blood went with it. Up and down the sea carried her, letting her feet brush against the sand before carrying her away once more. Sansa closed her eyes and let her own salt trickle down to mix with the gentle waves. When they opened once more, she raised her hands to her eyes.

            Her vision blurred, but only pale-white palms stared back at her. The blood was gone; the sea had washed it away. Yet still her throat constricted. The great weight pounding against her chest remained.

_Will I never be free?_

            Sansa wanted to scream, to cry, to shout and curse, and as a strangled sound rose from her tightening throat, another came from behind.

            “Sansa!”

            She turned in the water. _Oberyn._

He moved through the water with an effortless grace, one that was not hindered by the ugly, purple welt across his jaw. As he swam towards her, Sansa allowed herself to meet him, allowed him to drag her body closer to the shore until just her knees stood beneath the swelling sea.

            Oberyn’s hands move up and down her body, checking for wounds or blood or _something_ while she stood there, silent in the gentle waves, numb beneath the blood-red sky. _You did this, you did_ , she wanted to scream. Instead she said nothing, did nothing until his hands cradled her head and his dark eyes searched her own.

            “Sansa, tell me what happened in there.”

            Her eyes focused on his ugly, purple mark. _Jaime did that_ , she realized. _Jaime with his golden hand, the hand that saved me so long ago in the Gardens…_

“You know what happened,” she said quietly, refusing to meet his eyes. The sea beat against her legs, stinging her raw skin. “He’s dead—Littlefinger is dead. I killed him for you.”

            Oberyn shifted his hands, and Sansa was forced to meet his eye. “For _me_? It is _you_ who wanted him dead, you who needed this monster gone from your life—”

            “And when did I tell you this?” she snarled, tearing herself free from his grasp. Anger boiled up inside her, one that dried the tears streaming down her cheeks, one that masked, if only for a moment, the blood clinging to her hands. “When you made love to me each night, whispering of your northern queen? Or was it when you were away for _months_ , meeting with the last Targaryen? When did I tell you, Oberyn, that I wanted this? That I wanted _any_ of this?” She thrust an arm out towards the camp just beyond the shore, towards the men, the _war_ he planned to wage. “When did I ask for any of it?” Her final words came out hoarse and raw and pained, and Sansa’s arm dropped lifelessly to her side.

            He tried to reach for her, but Sansa stepped backwards, stepped deeper into the glittering sea. “I rescued you,” he said softly. “I took you from King’s Landing, saved you from the Lannister Queen…”

            “And for that I will always be grateful.” She met his hard eyes with her own. The tears had dried now, and only salt remained upon her skin. Her voice grew stronger as she spoke, the helplessness from before fading as the sea carried it away. “But _this_?” She gestured again to the camp just beyond. “This is not me, Oberyn. I never wanted a crown, a war, an army…and I didn’t want vengeance—”

            “But you wanted him.”

            His words cut her off, and silence rang out despite the gentle lull of the waves, despite the tents and men that had flickered back to life.

            Her eyes dropped. She stared at her skirts, at the way the silk bunched and pulled beneath the water. _Yes,_ she wanted to say. _Yes, yes, yes_. But the words stuck in her throat, and Sansa could not bring herself to meet her husband’s eyes.

            When her eyes refused to lift from the swirling sea, Oberyn released a sharp whistle through his teeth, and Sansa felt her eyes prick with tears once more.

            “Do you love him?”

            She could not bring herself to answer.

            Oberyn waded closer through the waves until his body, warm and hard and wet, stood before her. He raised a hand, and for a moment Sansa thought he might strike her. Perhaps he wanted to—perhaps she deserved it. But then his fingers found her cheek, smoothing a plastered lock of hair behind her ear.

            “I’m sorry,” he murmured to her downcast eyes. Something broke in his voice, something she had not heard in all their days and nights as man and wife. His touch lingered, and Sansa felt herself collapsing against his chest, sobbing into the sopping silk. Oberyn’s arms closed in around her, pulling her close, laying her head against his heart. “I’m sorry.”

 

* * *

 

 

            Jaime rolled over on his pallet, staring at the tent’s silken wall with heavy eyes. His muscles ached, his right arm burned, but still he did not regret any of it—not the fight, not his words, nothing…

            _Except you didn’t go after her_. _You let her husband do that, let that fucking bastard have his way…_ He imagined her right now, trapped in her husband’s arms while the pain of what she did played endlessly in her mind. He _knew_ killing Littlefinger would do this to her, knew that as strong as Sansa seemed, she was not a killer. He knew that once blood stained her hands, it would not ever leave. He knew because every time he closed his eyes, the blood of the Mad King dripped from his gleaming sword, haunting his dreams, breathing life into his nightmares.

            The sound of crickets and men and campfires, the sound of _night_ , drifted through his tent. It was a sound he had fallen asleep to a countless number of times, but tonight Jaime’s eyes refused to shut. He found himself staring, just staring at the wall until a shape flickered past, low and crouched and swift.

            Jaime pushed himself to his elbows, brow furrowed. The shadow was gone, unless…

            Scrambling from his pallet, Jaime made his way to the tent’s entrance. He pushed the flap aside, poking out his head. _Nothing_. He released a sigh, and just as Jaime was about to curse himself for thinking so foolishly, a soft whine rang out into the night. Jaime’s eyes jerked to the side, and he found himself peering down into the shadowed path. Two glowing orbs stared back a him, golden and bright in the darkness.

            “White Wind,” he hissed beneath his breath. “ _Here_.” When the dog did not do so much as cock her head, Jaime crept fully from his tent, ignoring the cool breeze biting at his bare arms. “Sansa?”

            This time the pup’s tail gave a wag, and her paw pressed urgently into the earth. When Jaime failed to step forwards, she turned in a circle, whining once more.

            Without a look back to his tent, Jaime followed the snow-white pup into the night.

            Through tents and men they weaved, turning this way and that, moving silently down the rows as men slumbered within their silken rooms. A passing guard eyed him as he moved deeper into the camp but said nothing to the Kingslayer and his princesses’ wolf-like dog.

            Finally they emerged before the largest tent, and Jaime found himself pausing as the pup slipped through the entryway. He frowned, staring at the silk drifting upwards in the wind.

            “Sansa?”

            There was a rustling, the soft sound of bare feet on earth, then the tent wall rippled slightly. Jaime move towards the spot, then reached his hand to the silk.

            He sucked in a startled breath as his hand met another, just the thin fabric between their joining palms. A quiet voice whispered back into the night. “Jaime? Is that you? I wasn’t sure…”

            “White Wind found me,” he whispered back, smiling at the thought. He felt foolish and silly, more green boy than knight, but still he stepped forward, leaned into the taught silk, felt her warmth spread into his hand. He could hear as her chest rose and fell, as her heart quickened at their touch. “I wanted to go after you…come outside,” he urged softly.

            “I know.” Her fingers tried to reach for his, but the silk held them back from truly intertwining. “But I can’t. Oberyn—”

            The name brought fury to his eyes, and Jaime took a breath to remain calm. “Oberyn sleeps, does he not?”

            “He knows, Jaime.” He felt her shift closer, and the outline of her slim form appeared in the dark silk. Jaime longed to reach for her, to run his hands over the curve of her waist and pull her close. “And I can’t go out, I can’t, just…” Her voice broke, her fingers reached for his.

            “Just what?” he breathed out, voice hoarse and strained.

            “Just tell me something…anything.”

            In the shadows he saw her sink to the ground, and Jaime found himself doing the same. He turned, letting his back rest against the silk, against hers, like they had done for so many nights, like they had done so long ago. Memories of their trip to Dorne swam forward, and Jaime heard the sea-storms raging out above as they hid below, just a piece of wood separating them as he talked and talked and she drifted off to sleep. Now with whispered words he did the same, only a sheet of silk and a looming war kept them apart this time. Jaime told her new stories, ones of Myrcella and Tommen, of their childhoods at the Red Keep and his own at Casterly Rock. Tales of his golden sister tumbled out amidst the rest, and tonight Jaime let them fall, freely and unabashed. They had both gone through too much to keep that part of him tucked away.

            At some point Sansa’s fingers had found their way beneath the tent walls, sliding along the earth, and now they brushed against his own, touching, feeling, holding. Jaime longed to grab her hand and rip right through the silk walls, to kiss her tears away and hold her in his arms.

            _But you can’t,_ he told himself, falling silent as his story came to a close. He rubbed his thumb across her hand and felt her fingers close around his own. _You can’t, and you know it._ Jaime’s hand pulled away from hers, and he reached deep into the pocket of his breeches. His fingers closed around the cool silver, and with a sigh Jaime pulled it out, setting it on the ground beside her hand.

            Her fingers started at the cold metal, then wrapped around the silver bird to press its shape into her palm.

            “I found it after…after you…” His voice trailed off. He didn’t know what he had been trying to say.

            Sansa’s thumb brushed the silver feathers as silence stretched between them. Finally the pin fell from her hand, reaching instead for his own once more. “I don’t want it,” she whispered, smoothing her thumb across the back of his hand. “I don’t want any reminder of him. I don’t want to remember what I did, at least for now. You keep it, Jaime. Keep it for me.”

            Jaime stared down at the little Mockingbird, disgusted at what the Viper had done, what he had made her become. “You don’t deserve any of this, Sansa.”

            She let out a chocked sob, and Jaime’s grip around her fingers tightened. “And what do I deserve after this?” she said helplessly. He could hear the tears in her voice, could see the streaks across her pale cheek in his mind.

            _What do you deserve…_ His gaze wandered to the tents all around him, to the flickering torches, to the silver pin abandoned in the sand. _An endless summer, your frozen home, a family to keep you safe…_ He wanted all of that and more.

            “You deserve to be loved,” he whispered to the night, to the hand trapped in his and the girl just out of reach inside the tent. The words echoed into the silence, and Jaime squeezed her hand once more.

            _You deserve to be loved…If only the gods could grant us that._  


	26. Chapter Twenty Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the final chapter for this fic. I honestly cannot express how grateful I am for everyone that has read it, commented, and left kudos...without you all, I never could have done it. I've learned so much through this story and truly believe that I've become a better writer because of it, so thank you. I hope you enjoy. xxx
> 
> (There is a little surprise at the end, so make sure to read the end notes)

Oberyn moved through the castle with growing worry. They had reached Skyreach that morning in preparation to move upwards through the Prince’s Pass, with the greatest of the dragon queen’s forces encamped and waiting to meet his own in the Red Mountains beyond. After the formal introductions in Lord Fowler’s court and a long day spent with his men in camp, he longed to see his wife—after that day in the sea, there had been little but small talk and courtesies between them. Oberyn had tried to speak with her, to apologize again for what had happened, but a certain coldness had taken root inside her. It shrugged him off with a pretty smile, a gentle hand, and that was that. For the past few days their lives had been but a shell of what they had been, and for the first time, Oberyn wondered if she had felt just as empty all along.

            Up and up he went, when his search though the guest chambers and parlors proved fruitless. The castle was rich with towers climbing high into the evening sky, and as he scaled a winding staircase, he thought back upon the night of that bastard’s death. _We were asleep in bed, or so I thought_ …Just thinking of it sent a strange, plunging feeling to his stomach.

            He had awoken to the soft murmur of voices to find Sansa gone from his arms, sitting with her knees drawn to her chest beside the tent wall. Tendrils of moonlight peeked in from a gap along the ground, washing over her hand as it reached for another’s on the other side. _And I knew right away whose hand she held_ , Oberyn remembered with a frown. _Perhaps I had known all along…_

            In the end, he found her atop the battlements.

            With her back to him and the sun setting fiery and red in the distance, Sansa looked more god than girl as she looked over the Dornish camp below. He approached her wordlessly, and the only hint of  recognition was the slight tightening of her hand as it gripped the hard stone. Oberyn paused just behind her, just close enough to see the pale mask upon her face.

            There was no use pretending everything was fine—no use pretending he only found her to bring her to his bed, to make love to her as he so desperately wanted as if it were her first time once again, when she was but a blushing maid awakened to the possibilities of touch. With an unsettling feeling, Oberyn wondered faintly if that _had_ been her first time...With a shake of the head and a hard swallow, he quickly pushed the thought away.

            “I’m sorry, Sansa,” he began quietly. Their silence shattered against the blood-red sun, and her jaw flinched at his voice. “But you already know that. I’m sorry.”

            She ignored him. Oberyn took a step closer, raising his hand with his fingers curled against his palm. “And now…now I need to know what you want to do. What you _truly_ want to do.” He brushed his knuckles against her cheek, feeling her cold skin beneath his touch. She didn’t answer, didn’t turn to him. She only looked out upon the field below, at the men and tents cast beneath a crimson light as the sun swelled in the evening sky. “If you want to fight this war by my side, or…” He paused, and his thumb grazed the corner of her lips. He took another swallow and continued on. “Or if you want to leave with him. With Jaime.” His hand fell away.

            Sansa turned to meet his eyes. She pressed her lips together as she searched his face, then her eyes fell to the hand that had brushed against her cheek. When she didn’t respond, Oberyn continued on in that same low voice tinged with a sadness he could not quite place.

            “I had a vision of you, Sansa, when I took you from King’s Landing.” He closed his eyes for the briefest moment, and when they opened, the dream matched his reality. “You were the queen in the North, a princess of Dorne. You wore a silver crown,” he raised his fingers to touch the circlet atop her head, “and flames leapt against your snow-white skin.” Now he touched those too, smoothed a hand across her flaming curls, cupped her chin in his hands. He drew her closer, and Sansa had no choice but to look into his eyes as they drank her in, drank in the vision he had so long ago. Now it may never be his but for this fleeting moment atop the battlements, with the sun dripping crimson down onto the field, and with her lovely face caught between his hands. His eyes flickered to her lips, and just then she reached up to grasp his wrists.

            “I know, Oberyn.” She took a breath, then pulled his hands from her face. Her eyes broke away, and she turned once more towards the sky. “I know.”

            Her words washed over him, uncertain and raw and true—truer than he’d ever heard, truer than he’d ever asked for. _And I should have asked you this long ago, when my vision was still just a dream, when blood you never wanted hadn’t spilled onto your hands._

            Oberyn brushed a light kiss against her cheek, placed a hand on her shoulder. “It is your choice,” he said softly as his lips parted from her skin. And without another word, Oberyn slipped from the stony walkway, leaving her alone before the bleeding sun.  

 

* * *

 

 

            The door to the walkway shut softly behind him, and only then did Sansa breathe. Tears pricked at her eyes, and for a second she almost called out his name, called for the times when they’d been happy together before the war, before Littlefinger’s death…before Jaime’s true feelings had whispered in through the tent’s silken walls.

            _The war or Jaime…_ That was what Oberyn had said. That was her choice now. And deep down, she knew it had been just that all along. The sun blazed on before her, and Sansa closed her eyes in its fiery glare. A tear squeezed out from beneath her lashes, running down her cheek, passing over the spot her husband had just touched against her lips.

            She thought on what her father might say, cold and wise and a warrior his whole life. Surely he would chose war. And her mother, the proud and beautiful Lady Catelyn who knew both the horror and comfort a man could bring. It was love her mother found in the end. What would the old Sansa do, what would she think of her now? The little red-headed girl who left Winterfell knowing nothing of pain but the tragedy of songs…what would she say, in a choice between war and love?

            _The war or Jaime…what if I never know?_ Would she spend her whole life atop this castle wall, staring out at an army, searching desperately for her knight far below within the crowd? Questions whirled through her mind, and Sansa felt more tears leaking from her eyes. Her heart said one thing, her mind said another—

            “Sansa?”

            She turned suddenly at the voice, hastily whipping at her cheeks. “Myrcella,” she said, voice heavy with relief. The girl had paused by the door, and Sansa now saw the babe in her arms. “What are you doing up here?”

            Myrcella stepped across the stones, careful as to not jostle the little Ceransa nestled with her head against Myrcella’s breast. Her eyes searched Sansa’s face, and her brows pulled together in concern.

            “I wanted to get away for a bit, get some fresh air. The castle and the camp are just so noisy…” she trailed off, biting her lip as Sansa tried to hide a sniffle behind her hand. “Is anything wrong, Sansa?”

            She almost wanted to laugh at the girl’s sweet ignorance—but how could she possibly know what was going on? Myrcella had no fierce husband to want to please, had no war waiting by her feet. “I—it is nothing, Myrcella,” she said softly, hoping the girl would not press more on the issue. She didn’t want Myrcella caught up in the mess she’d made, especially not now with her growing closer to Jaime within the last few months.

            Myrcella nodded, though she still worried at her lip. “Do you see this, Sansa?” she said finally, breaking the silence that had stretched heavily between them. She gazed down at the babe in her arms, and Sansa saw that she had fallen asleep. “She likes it up here, likes the peace and quiet. I suppose she’s like me in that way.”

            Sansa found herself smiling at the little girl, and she brushed one of the dark curls that wisped from her temple. “She’s strong too. Just like her mother.” It was no easy feat to bring a babe into war, even one that hadn’t truly begun. _And it hasn’t been easy for mother or child_ , Sansa knew too well.

            The princess blushed at that, but then to Sansa’s surprise, her lips curved into a frown as she looked up from the sleeping babe in her arms. “What do I know about being strong? I let mother send me away, I allowed Trystane into my bed before we were wed…”

            Sansa sighed, giving the girl a soft, reassuring smile. “What do any of us know?”

            “But you’re…” Myrcella trailed off, brows furrowing. She glanced from Sansa to the camp below, peering out at the sea of silk. In the fading light, the tents cast long, creeping shadows that stretched from the busy lines to the barren field of sand and wispy grass before the castle’s outer wall.

            “I didn’t ask for this…for any of it,” said Sansa quietly as her gaze matched Myrcella’s.

            Something closed around Sansa’s fingers, and with a small start, she realized that the golden-haired princess had taken her hand. “One day when Ceransa’s grown, I want her to meet you, Sansa. To meet the woman she’s named after…the woman who kept her safe.”

            Sansa squeezed her hand. _She already believes I am the one to lead this war…_ It was strange to hear how sure Myrcella was of her, how much faith the girl had placed. Like there was no doubt in her mind, even when Sansa’s own whirled day and night with worry about what was to come. “I promise,” she said when Myrcella returned her touch. “And I’ll remind her how brave you were as well.”

            They fell silent, with only Ceransa’s soft breaths to distract them from the sound of men and metal below. At some point, as the sun fell even further from the sky and torches began to pop up along the endless rows of tents, Sansa realized what she had to do—what she had to do for Oberyn and the dragon queen, for Myrcella and Ceransa, for Jaime…and for herself. She put her hand on the princesses’ shoulder, bringing her back to the present. Myrcella’s eyes widened slightly at her words before understanding washed across her face. She nodded, slipping from the walkway with Ceransa still sound asleep in her arms.

 

* * *

 

 

            He stopped in the doorway, and a breath caught in his throat.

            When Myrcella had found him in his tent, worry had seized him, and he’d rushed through the castle with one-thousand possibilities whirling through his mind. What if Myrcella hadn’t understood and she was hurt, what if she never wanted to see him again—now, as he stood facing her, Jaime could not help but let his mouth hang open at the sight before him. A hand reached behind to close the door, and Sansa’s head turned at the sound.

            With a crimson sun set deep into the sky and her auburn hair whipping around her shoulders and the flames of countless torches bursting into life in the field below, Sansa was bathed in a blinding light. Her lips twitched, hinting at a smile, and he let out his breath.

            Jaime walked forward to stand by her side. He gazed down at the blazing field below, trying to see it as she did, a girl of ten-and-five with no war to her name but this. Ash from the men’s’ fires drifted upwards in the wind, tumbling and spiraling against the bloody sky like snow before a storm. _And what a war it is._

            “All those men…” said Sansa softly. Jaime turned to see her pale blue eyes glisten, from smoke or wind or tears he did not want to know.

            “It does not have to be you.”

            She turned to face him. A hand went to his cheek, and a thumb stoked gently at his skin. “Dorne needs a princess,” she whispered, drawing him towards her until their foreheads met and the wetness that stained her cheeks ran against his own. “And the north needs a queen.” She took his lips, and a great roar from below sounded at some insignificant battle cry, foolish and drunk on the upcoming fight, someplace cold and cruel where men told little girls to lead wars.

            “Let them die and lose or die and win for some other queen…some other girl. _I_ need you, Sansa. _I_ need you with me.” He wanted to kiss her, shake her, carry her off to some summer land far away, where no war, no past, could touch them. Someplace where the only crown she’d bear would be of sunlight, and the only war she’d lead would be against a moment’s drenching, life-giving, rain or against a blissful summer's snow. 

            Instead Jaime drew back, for he knew that place did not exist. _Not yet_ , he thought sadly, gazing upon her sweet face which would soon belong to so many. _Not for her._ Their faces turned outward, and Sansa took his hand one last fleeting, hapless time.

            “I love you,” he whispered to the flaming queen beside him, to the queen who’d steal away the maid of summer he once knew, the girl he’d kissed beneath the golden olive trees, the girl he’d held in his arms until dawn broke through the silver sky of night.

            “I must win this war, Jaime,” she said softly to the endless, blood-stained sky before her. She squeezed his fingers, and then her hand fell away. “First, I must win this war.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the surprise is...There's going to be a sequel! 
> 
> "When Winter Thaws"  
> Coming soon...ish. Use the link or click below to check it out...I hope ya'll get as hyped as I am for it. Enjoy, and I'd love to hear your predictions!
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/7362685


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